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[ BY MRS. E. PRENTISS. 


Pemaquid : A Story of Old Times in 

New England, izmo, . . . 5 ® 

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The Home at Greylock. i2mo, . i 50 
Urbane and his Friends. i2mo, . i 50 
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Six Little Princesses., i 6 mo, 75 

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the Christian life — (originally published un- 
der the title of Religious Poems). i 6 moj . I 25 

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ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & CO., 

900 BROADWA.Y, New York. 


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Intelligencer. 

Da vid Flemings Forgiveness. By Margaret 

M. Robertson, author of “Janet’s Love and Service.” 
xamo. Cloth. Price, $1.25. 

A story founded upon the lives of some New England 
families who were pioneers upon Canadian soil. The 
book dwells upon the customs and courtesies of the titne, 
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which it introduces to the reader The book is 

admirable : its language elegant and expressive . — The 
Inter-Ocean, Chicago. 


Either or all of the above sent by mail, post-paid, on 
receipt of the price. Fractional amounts can be remitted 
in postage-stamps. , 

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY, 

900 Broadway, Cor. ^th St., New York. 
May be obtained of the booksellers. 



I 







AVIS BENSON; 


OR, 

MINE AND 


THINE. 


WITH OTHER SKETCHES. 

\ 


Mrs. E 



•'kh.t.ss,-/ 


AtrrHOR OF “ STEPPING HEAVENWARD ; ” “ THE HOME AT GREYLOCK ; ” 

“aunt, jane’s hero,” etc., etc. 



i(jYo.^/3SA£_A: 

1879 . , 0 '-' 

' . :-V' 

NEW YORK: 

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY, 

900 Broadway, Cor. 20th Street. 

r 


ftv - 


COPYRIGHT, 1879. BY 
Anson D. F. Randolph & Company. 


• > 4. 

I c <• 


NEW YORK: 

Fdward O. Jenkins, Printer, 

20 North William St. 


Robert Rutter, Binder. 
84 Beekman St. 


The first story in this volume was originally published 
in The Advance, at Chicago, under the title of Mine 
and Thine, shortly after the great fire in 1871. The 
other pieces appeared in the New York Observer a yeaf 
later. They are now reprinted in the belief that the many 
readers of Mrs, Prentiss' writings will be glad to have 
them in a permanent form. 


Nbw York, October , 1879, 


G. L. P. 



CONTENTS 


Mine and Thine, 7 

Such as I Have 103 

Homeward Bound, 119 

Taking for Granted, .... 137 

Why Satan Trembles, 155 

Having Nothing, yet Having All, . 173 

Success and Defeat, 191 

On the Banks of the River of Life, . 207 

A Model Servant, 223 

Playing with Sunbeams, .... 239 

Saved from his Friends, .... 253 




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MINE AND THINE. 


I. 


« OOK here, Noll, Mrs. Benson was in 



^ last night after you went to bed, and 
she says she’s a good mind to send Avis to 
school.” 

“ Ho ! that little thing ! ” 

“She aint so very little; and she’s the 
smartest creature at her books ! And, Noll, 
I’m going to give you two turnovers to carry 
to school to-day.” 

Noll expressed his approbation of this gen- 


( 7 ) 


8 


Mine and Thine. 


erous decision, by tossing his cap into the air, 
and by a contemptuous Pooh ! ” 

Oh, very well ! I know who’ll be glad of 
them, if you don’t want them.” 

“You can’t come it over me with apple 
turnovers, mother,” continued Noll. “ I aint 
a-going to be hired to carry Avis Benson to 
school.” 

“ Who said anything about Avis Benson ? ” 
cried his mother. 

“Just as if you’d go to offering turnovers 
for nothing! ” retorted the boy. “ No, I aint 
a-going to be seen going to school with a girl ; 
no, not if you went down on your knees about 
it.” 

“ If you had a little sister, you’d have to do 
it, you naughty boy, you ! How can you be 
so contrary ? Poor Avis ! If her three broth- 
ers hadn’t died, she wouldn’t need to be be- 
holden to you, or anybody else.” 

Noll made no answer. He could just re- 
member a solemn, yes, an awful time in his 
short experience, when there was a funeral at 
Mrs. Benson’s, and three little coffins were 


Mine and Thine. 


9 


carried out, one after another, and how afraid 
he was that there was something catching in- 
side, and shuddered lest he should get it, 
whatever it was. 

All the fellows will laugh at me if I go 
with a girl,” he said. 

His mother, perceiving that he was begin- 
ning to yield, hastened to urge on the cause of 
little Avis. 

‘‘ No, they won’t laugh at you, either. And 
if they do, they’d ought to be ashamed. 
Come, here’s the turnovers ; one’s mince, and 
one’s apple. And here’s a doughnut for you 
and another for Avis. Now, Oliver Watson ! 
What a boy you are ! Well, if you eat up 
your dinner the instant you’ve done breakfast, 
you’ll have to go to bed hungry, that’s all.” 

Oliver, who knew how little this threat really 
meant, formidable as it sounded, marched 
coolly off, consuming both doughnuts before 
he reached Mrs. Benson’s. There he found 
Avis, sitting on the door-step. 

“ Halloo, Avis ! ” he shouted. 

Avis made no answer, except by the faintest 


lo 


Mine and Thine. 


little smile which she tried hard not to 
smile. 

“You’ve got to go to school along of 
me,” continued Oliver. “Your mother says 
so.” 

“No, I aint a-going to school,” said Avis. 

At this moment, her mother, a pale, sorrow- 
ful-looking woman, came to the door. 

“ Yes, ma wants you to go,” said she, “ and 
Noiril be good to you, won’t you, Noll? 
Come, here’s your dinner all ready. Give me 
a kiss and run right along.” 

“No, I aint a-going to school,” repeated 
Avis. 

“Yes, go right along. Ma insists upon it. 
You know you promised, last night, that you 
would go.” 

Avis burst into loud cries and tears, throw- 
ing herself into her mother’s arms, and cling- 
ing tightly to her neck. 

“ There, that will do ! ” said Mrs. Benson, 
unclasping the little arms ; “ now give ma one 
more kiss, and go with Noll.” 

But the screams and cries were only re- 


Mine and Thine. 


II 


doubled. “What shall I do?’* cried Mrs. 
Benson. “ Noll, you come and coax her.” 

“ I have enough to do with coaxing mother,” 
replied Oliver. “ Come, Avis, don’t stand 
fooling there. We shall be late. I can’t wait 
for you all day. Just say out and out: are 
you going, or aint you going ? ” 

“ Well, I aint, there ! ” said Avis, angrily. 
“ I sha’n’t go unless ma goes ; so there, now ! ” 

“Poor little thing!” said Mrs. Benson. 
“ She’s cried herself sick, and isn’t fit to go to- 
day. You come for her to-morrow, there’s a 
good boy.” So saying, she rummaged in the 
little dinner basket for some special dainty 
with which to entice him to come again, and 
drew forth a delicate china cup containing a 
custard. 

“ There, as long as Avis won’t go to school, 
we’ll give part of her dinner to you,” she 
said. 

“ I don’t like your custards,” said Noll, 
bluntly. “ They’re skinny. Mother says so, 
too.” 

Mrs. Benson put on a meek, resigned look. 


12 


Mine and Thine. 


with which Noll was quite familiar, and which 
he hated cordially. 

“ I’m glad my mother aint like her^' he 
said to himself as he ran away. ‘‘ I pity 
Avis, I’m sure. I aint going there any 
more.” 

The teacher of the district school, a young 
woman in a faded delaine which once boasted 
many colors, received her tardy pupil with an 
ominous frown. 

“ It aint my fault,” cried Oliver. It’s 
Mrs. Benson’s. She and Avis they just kept 
me a-waiting and a-waiting. And I haven’t 
been late but four times this week.” 

A smart rap on his unlucky knuckles from 
the teacher’s ferule, was her only reply to this 
statement of facts. 

See if I ever go nigh Avis Benson again ! ” 
muttered Oliver, as he marched back to his 
seat, with his smarting little fist doubled into 
a convenient form for knocking her, or some- 
body, down. “They’re all alike, girls are; 
all they know how to do is to cry when 
they’re little, and, when they’re big enough 


Mine and Thine. 


13 

to be school-ma’ams, to hit a fellow for just 
nothing at all.” 

Now, it was the firm intention of Avis to 
go to school after a suitable degree of oppo- 
sition on the subject, and she was not at all 
pleased when, the next morning, she saw 
Oliver march sturdily past her mother’s house 
without so much as giving her one chance at 
a free fight. 

“ There goes old Oliver Watson ! ” she said 
to herself. And he may, for all me.” 

“ There, he’s gone and left you, I declare ! ” 
said Mrs. Benson. “ What a naughty boy ! 
But that’s all in the bringing up. Because 
he’s all she’s got, his mother can’t bear 
to cross his will. Well, ma isn’t going to 
spoil her little Avis so. Come, you’re to go 
to school, Oliver or no Oliver, if I have to 
take you myself.” 

“ Oh, no, no ! ” Avis burst out ; I don’t 
want to go ! I can’t go ! ” 

“Well, there now, stop crying; you know 
it does break ma’s heart to hear you take on 
so. It is hard to go off with other people’s 


14 Mine and Thine. 

boys when you might have had three brothers 
of your own to take you around.” 

Now, Avis had heard these three broth- 
ers spoken of in a lamentable voice every day 
since she could remember. And she was 
heartily sick and tired of it. She was not 
old enough to know how sorrow had changed 
her mother from a blooming, cheerful young 
woman, into a prematurely old, sallow, and 
pining one. All she did know was, that 
while a good deal was said about obedience, 
nothing was ever done to secure it, and that 
with a few tears she could make herself mon- 
arch of all she surveyed. 

It isn’t nice here at home,” she said to 
herself, as her mother, with a deep sigh, went 
to make some change in her dress. “ I’ve a 
good mind to go to school all by myself. I 
know the way, and I can.” 

So, without waiting to make known her in- 
tentions, she set off at full speed, never stop- 
ping until she was out of breath, and not a 
little fatigued. 

‘‘ I don’t see the school-house anywhere,” 


Mine and Thine, 


15 


she said at last, “ and I’m sure it used to be 
right here. I wish I’d waited for ma. What 
if I’ve got lost? Well, if I have it isn’t my 
fault. It’s all because that ugly Oliver 
wouldn’t stop for me this morning.” 

She walked on a little further, perplexed, 
tired, and hungry.; then she reflected that 
“ ma ” would certainly come to look for her, 
and that it might be well to retrace her steps. 
But no one was to be seen upon the long, 
lonely road, and her heart began to beat fast 
with terror. I’ve got lost ! I’ve got lost ! ” 
she shrieked out, running wildly this way and 
that. “Oh, why doesn’t ma come to find 
me ? And I’m so tired ! Oh, dear ! oh, dear 
me!” 

How often she had seen her mother rock 
herself back and forth, uttering just such a 
heart-breaking “ Oh, dear ! oh, dear me ! ’ 
and wondered if it was the headache or the 
toothache, or what it was that ailed her! 
But now the sound of wheels v/as heard, and 
Deacon Watson came driving along in his 
wagon, as jovial and merry as a boy. 


i6 


Mine and Thine. 


Why, Avis Benson ! ” he cried, “ how on 
earth came you here ? ” 

I was going to school, and I got lost, and 
I’m so tifed,” said Avis in a little weak, wailing 
voice. “ Oh, you’ll carry me home, won’t you ?” 

“ Of course I will. Why, you’re as pale as 
a sheet. What time of day did you start for 
school ? ” 

“ I guess it was about nine.’*’ 

Whew ! And it’s half-past four now. 
Where have you been all this time ? ” 

But Avis had fallen asleep, and lay back in 
his arms, her face all stained with tears, and 
her chest still heaving with sobs. 

“ She’s a pretty little creature,” said the 
deacon, as he drove on. “ I wish I had one 
just like her. Just like her, all but the spoil- 
ing, I mean. She’s an awful spoilt child. But 
I suppose her mother is about crazy by this 
time ; so git up, old Bob, and let’s put her out 
of misery.” 

Mrs. Benson was, indeed, in a fearful state, 
and had only been kept in her senses by Mrs. 
Watson’s good common. sense. 


Mine and Thine. 


17 


“ Don’t take on so,” she said, when, after a 
fruitless search for the child, the poor mother 
had flown to her for refuge. “ There aint no 
sense in it. There aint no bears to eat her up, 
nor no woods to get lost in ; I expect she’s 
gone on and on till she’s come to some house, 
and they’ve took her in and fed her, and ’ll be 
bringing her home. La ! there she is now, in 
my husband’s arms ; ah, I knew no harm had 
come to her. What would make you take on 
so?” 

‘‘ When you’ve lost three of them, you’ll 
know,” returned Mrs. Benson, seizing upon 
her stray lamb, and covering it with tears and 
kisses. 

“ I aint got ’em to lose,” said Mrs. Watson, 
somewhat grimly, ‘^but I know one thing. I’d 
rather a’ had ’em and lost ’em than have been 
as I have.” 

It is said that our friends may be divided 
into three classes : friends who love us, friends 
who hate us, and friends who are indifferent 
to us. Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Benson were 

friends who hated each other. They never 
2 


1 8 Mine and Thine, 

had had a quarrel ; they ran in and out of each 
other’s houses with perfect freedom ; Mrs. 
Watson had the Bensons to tea very often, 
and Mrs. Benson had the Watsons just as fre- 
quently. When Mrs. Watson had a felon on 
her finger and could not make her own bread, 
Mrs. Benson came twice a week to make it 
for her. To be sure she would make it a la 
Benson, and Mrs. Watson ate it with a burst- 
ing heart, and declared it abominable. And 
when fatal disease stole into Mrs. Benson’s 
wide-awake home and robbed it of the three 
laughing boys that made it so noisy and so 
cheerful, Mrs. Watson smothered her maternal 
fears for Oliver, and watched day and night 
in the sick-room, and offered consolation to the 
dying one. Mrs. Benson found all she said a 
solemn mockery, and wished people would 
not talk about things they didn’t understand. 
Mrs. Watson was very kind, very kind indeed ; 
but then you know she never lost three chil- 
dren all within four days of each other ! 

Mrs. Watson did wish Avis Benson wasn’t 
taught to say ‘‘ ma ; ” it sounded like a bossy- 


Mme and Thine. 


19 

calf, or an old sheep, or something just as 
silly. 

And Mrs. Benson shook her head, and said 
what a pity it was Mrs. Watson’s feelings were 
not a little more tender, and that Oliver was 
not obliged to treat her with a little grain of 
respect. 

Under these circumstances, it was not 
strange that the children were not fond of 
each other, and that Oliver, brought up by a 
mother who had never known a day of sick- 
ness or sorrow, despised Mrs. Benson’s watery 
ways ; while Avis, petted and fondled as she 
always had been, shrank from Mrs. Watson’s 
somewhat rough good-humor. 

But the little adventure just described, 
brought a new element into this social atmos- 
phere. When Oliver saw the limp figure in 
his father’s arms, and looked at the wan, tear- 
ful face, his heart misgave him. He wished 
he had coaxed Avis to go with him that morn- 
ing, instead of stamping past her house so 
savagely. And Avis, in her gratitude to the 
deacon for coming to her rescue, clung to him 


20 


Mine and Thine. 


henceforth, with an affection which he heartily 
returned. 

She hardly remembered her own father ; he 
had been dead several years, and she crept into 
Mr. Watson’s strong arms, and laid her head 
on his great, wide breast, with that love of 
protection peculiar to the feminine nature. 

“ She is a pretty little thing ! ” he often re- 
peated, and if Mrs. Watson invariably added, 
“ Yes, but she is just spoilt,” he only laughed 
good-humoredly and declared ; “ But I’m get- 
ting fond of her ! ” 

A wise man has said that ‘‘ love never needs 
a reason.” No, it needs no reason ! Its springs 
often lie hidden amid inaccessible, far-off 
mountains, and it comes down from those 
heights to “ wander at its own sweet will,” 
and never asks itself, or tells to others, why its 
bright waters encircle ragged rocks, or linger 
round bare ones, or why it sometimes casts 
itself at the feet of some simple flower whose 
life it thenceforth becomes ! 


II. 

'T^HEM children’s always a quarreling,” 
said Mrs. Watson to her husband, as 
the sound of angry voices reached her ears. 

“ It’s all along of Oliver’s being so obstinate,” 
returned the deacon. You never broke his 
will, and he expects to have his own way with 
Avis, just as he does with you.” 

As to that, did you ever break his will ? 
Wasn’t it as much your business as mine?” 

Well, no, not exactly. I always said I 
could drive any kind of a team except a team 
of young ones. I never pretended that I 
knew how to manage Oliver. But as to 
Avis—” 

Yes, as to Avis, you are making a fool of 
yourself over that child. It provokes me to 
see you sit by the hour together cuddling her 
up.” 


( 21 ) 


22 


Mine and Thine. 


The deacon laughed, and made the same old 
answer : 

‘‘ Well, I am getting fond of her.” 

Meanwhile Oliver and Avis had “ made up,” 
and were playing together in great harmony. 
For though Avis always declared that she 
couldn’t bear Oliver, and though Oliver main- 
tained that he hated girls, the children were 
constantly drawn together by some mysteri- 
ous attraction. This state of things lasted 
till Oliver’s school-days were over, and he had 
become a great awkward boy, at that charm- 
ing age when everybody pecked at and snub- 
bed him, and when he was rude and disagree- 
able in return. 

“ What’s the reason you won’t go with me, 
as you used to. Avis ? ” he asked her, as they 
met one Saturday afternoon near the fence 
that divided the two farms. “ I never liked 
you so well as I do now, and you hardly speak 
to me.” 

“ Ma says you’re the rudest, noisiest, tear- 
ingest boy she ever saw,” returned Avis. 

And at Sue Hunt’s party you tore my dress.” 


Mine and Thine. 


23 

“ I didn’t mean to tear it. I shouldn’t think 
you’d lay up such a little thing against a fel- 
low.” 

It isn’t a little thing. It was one of my 
new dresses that ma made for me to wear 
when I go to boarding-school.” 

“To boarding-school ? You are going away 
to a boarding-school ? Well, if that aint the 
meanest thing yet ! ” 

He turned away, and went straight home, 
crossed the brook, wound up the hill, pushed 
on and on, till he found a place remote enough 
for the explosion that had got to come, some- 
where. 

What right had she to go away, he should 
like to know? And what sort of notions 
would she get into her head when she found 
herself among city folks? 

He lay upon the grass, anything but an in- 
teresting object, a boy and yet a man, a man 
and yet a boy, kicking against the pricks of 
life, while hardly conscious what they were. 
He only knew that he was unhappy and out 
of sorts. 


24 


Mine and Thine, 


But he had not much time for the nursing 
of moods in these days. He had chosen the 
life of a farmer as the life he liked best ; spring 
work was hurrying on apace, and was calling 
for him now. He got up with a sudden jerk, 
and was soon engrossed with the care of 
horses, cows, and sheep. 

Deacon Watson’s farm was large and profit- 
able; so was the widow Benson’s, and Mrs. 
Watson had her own views on the subject. 
Though she always spoke of Avis as a spoiled 
child, she was very willing to think of her as 
Oliver’s future wife, and of the consequent 
merging of the two farms into one. 

Mrs. Benson won’t live long,” she mused ; 
“ she worries too much. Then Avis will 
need somebody to look after her, and why 
shouldn’t it be our Oliver? To be sure, he’s 
neither hay nor grass now ; but by the time 
they’re old enough to be married, he’ll be a 
handsome young fellow, just like his father. 
La ! how awful fond I used to be of him ! ” 
Avis went off to school in great triumph. 
She had been obliged to fight many a battle 


Mine and Thine. 


25 


to gain her mother’s consent to the separa- 
tion this involved. But in giving way to her 
grief as she had done, Mrs. Benson had grad- 
ually lost her hold on Avis’ affections. To 
see a face always sad and tearful, to hear such 
endless dismal allusions to “ your dear pa,” 

your three brothers,” had become intoler- 
able. She wanted to get away somewhere, 
anywhere, out of sight of trouble. To be 
sure. Deacon Watson was jovial enough, and 
fond of her as if she were his own child. 
But, then, that horrid Oliver ! And that 
sharp-sighted Mrs. Watson, who had only to 
look at you to read you straight through, as 
she would a book, toss you down at the end, 
and say, “ Humph ! ” 

‘‘ There’s no sense in your taking on so, 
ma,” quoth she, as they were packing her 
trunk together. Mary Ann Green will come 
and stay with you, and she’s twice as good 
company as I am. And, at any rate, I sha’n’t 
be gone long. Only three months.” 

But the three months, with vacation be- 
tween, ran into six months, then into twelve. 


26 


Mine and Thine. 


and Avis, fascinated with new scenes, and 
used to an obedient parent, had no intention 
of settling down at home. She did not kill 
herself with hard study, not she, but learned 
to dress tastefully, got hold of a little French, 
and a little music, and took lessons in oil 
painting, which resulted in some execrable 
pictures, which tortured the very walls on 
which they hung. , 

At the end of two years she felt she knew 
all there was to learn, and was prepared to 
go home to astonish everybody with her ac- 
quirements. During those two years her 
mother had lived ten. She had continually 
pined and chafed and moaned, and when Avis 
at last came back to her, it was just a little 
too late to make amends for all this, and she 
broke completely down. 

“How provoking!” thought Avis. “Just 
as I was going to begin to have a good time, 
mother must needs take to her bed ! ” She 
forgot that she had had a good time all her 
life, and that such times last forever with 
nobody. 


Mine and Thine. 


27 


“Avis has grown as pretty as a picture,” 
said Deacon Watson. “ Don’t you think so, 
Oliver ? ” 

“ She looks well enough,” was the gruff 
reply. 

“ When I was a youngster,” pursued the 
deacon, “ I wouldn’t have lost such a girl for 
want of asking for her.” 

“No, that you wouldn’t!” cried his wife. 
“You had brass, if you hadn’t gold. As to 
Avis, a pretty farmer’s wife she’d make, to be 
sure I ” 

Oliver got up and left the room. The time 
had been when he was indifferent to Avis ; 
then her name had begun to sound musical 
in his ear. Now he could not bear to hear it 
mentioned, or to mention it ; she had become 
too much for him. Why? When? How? 
He asked himself these questions in vain. 
Why ? Because I do ! When ? Why, al- 
ways ! How ? I don’t care ! 

He kept himself aloof from her, watching 
her from a distance. Conceited though she 
was, she fancied that he disliked her. And 


28 


Mine and Thine. 


he was a handsome fellow, as his mother 
said he would be when he was nothing but 
an ugly duckling, and worth flirting with, if 
nothing more. As he made no advances to 
her, she found herself constrained to besiege 
him in his own camp. 

One evening, when he had just come home 
from his day s work, he found her perched, 
like a bird, on his father’s knee. She at once 
alighted from this friendly bough in pretty 
confusion. 

“ Excuse me, Mr. Watson,” she said, “ I 
had no idea you were so near.” And then 
she asked him to accept a little pocket pin- 
cushion which she said she had made with 
her own hands. 

So he was no longer Oliver to her, but Mr. 
Watson ! And hadn't every girl he knew 
given him a pin-cushion ? She went away 
discomfited, and he did not offer to go with 
her. 

“ Ma’s been longing for you to get home ; 
where have you been. Avis?” asked her 
mother in a repining tone. 


Mine and Thine, 


29 


“ I do wish you wouldn’t call yourself 
‘ ma,’ ” retorted Avis. I’ve been to the 
Watsons’, if you must know.” 

Seems to me Oliver doesn’t come here as 
much as he used to,” proceeded Mrs. Benson ; 

I hope you aint discouraging him.” 

There’s nothing to discourage and nothing 
to encourage. I don’t suppose he’s the only 
fish that swims in the sea.” 

“ Don’t be angry with your poor old ma — 
mother, I mean. I lie here a-thinking day in 
and day out, and wonder what will become 
of you after I’m gone.” 

After you’re gone,” repeated Avis, with 
surprise. “ Why, where are you going, moth- 
er?” 

Yes, that’s the question, where be I 
going? I mean, where am I going? You 
mustn’t make fun of your poor ma’s grammar, 
when she’s a-lying, may be, on her dying bed.” 

Now, if Avis had seen her mother take to 
her dying pillow once, she had seen her do so 
a score of times. So she was not in the least 
concerned at this fresh announcement, 


30 


Mine and Thine, 


You’ve died so many times that when the 
real time comes you’ll do it to perfection,” 
she said, laughing. 

I’ll tell you what it is, Avis,” Mrs. Benson 
went on, I’ve led a life I’m ashamed of. 
After your dear pa, I mean your dear father, 
died, and then all those boys I was so proud 
of, I just settled down to hug up my troubles 
and make the most of ’em. Mrs. Watson, she 
always labored with me about it, but I 
thought she didn’t know what she was talk- 
ing of. She kept saying, ‘ Get up, go round 
and look after other people’s troubles. Yours 
aint the only ones. There’s plenty of ’em 
everywhere, and if we all sat ’round weeping 
and wailing, it would be a dismal world.’ 
Now, Avis, you mark my words. When your 
time comes, and it will come — I’ve brought 
you up so easy that I’ve nigh upon spoilt you, 
and your time ’ll have to come — don’t you 
set down crying and moaning. Hunt up 
poor folks, and hear what they’ve got to say 
about trouble. Go and see old people that 
think they’ve lived too long, and cheer them 


/ 


Mine and Thine, 


31 


up. And if you can’t do anything else for 
sick people — and I know you aint strong, I’ve 
brought you up so tender — why, carry ’em a 
smile or a flower, or a kind word. It’s won- 
derful what a little thing it takes to brighten 
up sick folks.” 

She lay back on her pillow, quite exhausted 
by this unusual eflbrt of a weak intellect. 
Avis went to her now, roused and alarmed. 

“Are you really so sick, mother?” she 
asked more tenderly than she had ever spoken 
in her life. 

“ I thought you ought to know. I hoped 
I should live to see you and Oliver — to see 
the deacon teach you what I’d ought to. 
Avis, don’t put off getting ready to die as I 
did. Get ready now. I hope I’m forgiven, 
but I don’t know. I’m going off into the 
dark. Kiss me, dearie.” 

Poor Avis kissed again and again the lips 
already growing cold in death, and then sent 
a hasty, bewildered message to the Watsons. 
They all came, full of sympathy ; and though 
Oliver did not speak a word, the expression 


32 


Mine and Thine, 


of his eyes as hers met his told his story. It 
said, You are going to be left all alone in 
the world ; come to me ! ’’ 

What a poor little waif she was, to be sure ! 
For a time there did not seem to be any 
comfort for her anywhere. The whole ten- 
dency of her education had been to nurture 
the selfish element of her nature, not to 
eradicate it, and she was fain now to sit down 
and represent herself to her own conscious- 
ness as the most afflicted being on earth. 
Her dead mother had virtues the living 
mother never possessed, and she wept over 
her very much as, by example, she had been 
taught to weep. 

“ This won’t do, little Avis,” said Deacon 
Watson, when she went to pour out her grief 
on his shoulder. You know I love you just 
as if you were my own child, and I aint going 
to say anything to you I wouldn’t say to 
one of my own. But it is two months 
now since your mother was took away, and 
I’ve never seen you smile in all that time. 
Look here, my child. Don’t you suppose me 


Mine and Thine. 


33 


and my wife’s had our troubles? ' Why, we’ve 
had awful ones. Some time I’ll tell you all 
about it. But we carried them right to the 
Lord, and He just took and explained ’em to 
us. Why, it was beautiful. ^ Look here, 
deacon,’ says He, ‘ haven’t I always treated 
you like a son ? Haven’t I always been ten- 
der to you, and generous to you, and given 
you all you asked for, and thrown in some 
things you hadn’t sense to ask for?’ ‘Yes, 
Lord, it’s all true,’ says I, ‘ but I’m a poor, 
miserable creature, and the rod hurts so that 
I can’t help crying out.’ ‘ I meant to hurt 
you,’ says He. ‘ That’s the way I show my 
love. You were getting too fond of this 
world, and so I tried to wean you from it. 
And if this blow isn’t enough I shall send an- 
other.’ And I said, ‘ Yes, dear Lord, break 
me all to pieces if Thou wilt ! ’ And He did. 
There wasn’t a piece left as big as a pea. 
But He came close to me while He was whip- 
ping me, and came so often, that I got well 
acquainted with Him, and getting acquainted 
is the same thing as loving ; and rather than 
3 


34 


Mine and Thine, 


not see Him at all, I begged Him to come 
with a rod in His hand. My little Avis, poor 
little girl, can’t you do that ? ” 

“ Oh, no, no ! ” cried Avis, shrinking away. 

The deacon looked at her lovingly, yearn- 
ingly, l^ut said no more. 

He knew, and knew well, that the shortest 
way to a hurnan heart was ’round by the way 
of heaven, and that he must reach Avis 
through that power, and, for the present, 
through that alone. 

But he had made an impression on her. 
She understood now that his loving ways, 
the ways that h^d always attracted her, 
sprang from sornething purer and deeper than 
the fountain at which she had ever drank. 
His peculiar affection for her had hitherto 
excited her vanity ; now it revealed itself as 
something supernatural, and not of the earth, 
earthy ; for, while she could not understand 
it, she found a quality in his strikingly lacking 
in that of others. Even Oliver, though he 
now hovered around her, did not meet her 
wants. 


Mine and Thine, 35 

“ I wish,” she said to him one day, “ that 
you were as good to me as your father.” 

I never shall be. Some people are born 
to it, and some aint. The two things I am 
made for are to have the best farm in the 
State and the dearest woman for a wife.” 

‘‘Wait till you get her!” cried Avis, and 
she flew away as on wings. 

But she found her loneliness almost toler- 
able, and, somehow, Oliver’s admiration met 
a want, and satisfied something in her which 
she dignified with the name of a craving for 
love. While this element existed in her 
heart, it was but as an egotism of a refined 
selfishness, and it was always asking what it 
should get rather than what it should give. 

“ I’m kind o’ sorry you’re after Avis Benson 
so much,” Mrs. Watson said to Oliver. “ She’s 
a selfish, spoiled child, and nothing more. 
What you and your father find to like in her 
I don’t see, and never shall. Nor do I wonder 
so much at your doing so either, for he never 
sees a fault in anybody. Folks is all alike to 
him, and he just loves ’em straight through, and 


36 


Mine and Thine. 


when he come a-courting to me, he thought 
he’d found something so good in me that 
made him pick me out from the other girls. 
But I see it just as plain as day, that if I’d 
said no, it wouldn’t have put him out at all ; 
he’d have gone and courted Amanda Jones, or 
Hannah Stinson. But as for you, Oliver, I 
thought you had more sense.” 

Oliver vouchsafed no reply, for he was a 
man of few words, and many deeds, and, 
withal, fond of thinking and acting for himself. 
His mother’s opposition was just the stimu- 
lant he wanted, and that very evening he 
made Avis believe that it was quite essential 
to her happiness that he should come and live 
with her in her desolate home. People in the 
village said it was an appropriate engagement ; 
that she was the prettiest girl, and Oliver the 
“ likeliest ” man among them ; and then the 
families had been so intimate. 

At any rate, this engagement became a 
marriage, and the young couple settled down 
in Avis’ home. Soon the dismal old house 
that had so long looked as if it was dying of 


Mine and Thine. 


37 


disease of the heart, put on the cheerful as- 
pect that youth and health and fresh paint 
could give it. They fancied that they were 
quite happy. Avis said in her peculiar way 
that she hoped Oliver would continue to 
be good ” to her, and he promised over and 
over that he would, without being aware that 
his goodness was to consist in letting her 
have her own way in everything, and in 
thinking all she said was all-important and 
unique. He nevei whispered to her that she 
was to make a slave or a drudge of herself for 
him, though, quite unconsciously to himself, 
that was exactly what he proposed to let her 
become. 


III. 

‘‘T FORGOT to tell you,’* said Oliver, one 
day at dinner, that I am going to sell 
old Whitey. He isn’t worth his feed ; and 
besides, I want a horse that has got some 
mettle.” 

But I don’t want old Whitey sold,” said 
Avis, a touch of wounded pride in her voice. 

Why not?” 

Avis hesitated. Sure enough, why not ? 
Why, because she was piqued at Oliver’s say- 
ing he was going to sell the useless horse with- 
out consulting her. But she was only dimly 
conscious of that, so she said : 

“ Because mother was fond of him.” 

Not half so fond as she was of old 
Brindle, and yet you consented to have her 
sold.” 

‘‘Yes, but you consulted me about that.” 

(38) 


Mhte and Thine, 


39 


“ Oh, it’s a matter of spunk, then, is it ? ” 
asked Oliver, incautiously. 

“ Why, of course ; I don’t want my horses 
and cows sold off, and not a word said to me.” 

“ My horses ! My cows ! ” The “ my ” 
grated on Oliver’s ear. 

“ I did not suppose you wanted me to run 
and ask your leave to sell a good-for-nothing 
old horse like Whitey.” 

Avis made no reply, but pushed back her 
plate with a war-like air that irritated Oliver, 
but did not destroy his appetite. She might 
go without her dinner, if she chose to be so 
silly, but she should see how little he cared. 
So there they sat, those twain who had prom- 
ised to honor and cherish each other, in any- 
thing but a cherishing mood — Avis piqued, 
Oliver defiant. Who was to blame ? Why, 
both were in the wrong. In the first place, 
Oliver should have been diplomatic enough to 
let the proposition about old Whitey come 
from Avis, as he could have done easily 
enough. But when he had failed on this 
point. Avis should have owned that she was 


40 


Mine and Thine. 


a silly little girl to mind such a trifle ; but she 
did mind it when he enacted sole master of 
land and goods won through her, and wouldn’t 
he another time consult with her before sell- 
ing off things? If she had said this with the 
pretty air with which she had asked him to 
be good ” to her, who doubts that he would 
have yielded ? 

As it was, seeing no sign of relenting in 
her face, Oliver walked off very much out of 
humor. And the farmer who wanted just 
such a demure, reflective animal as old Whitey, 
coming to urge the conclusion of the bargain. 
Avis shortly saw dear mother’s favorite 
horse ” led off to turn the wheel of Sam 
Stover’s cider-mill. Indignant tears burst forth 
at the sight. 

“ Poor mother, you did not think your little 
Avis would come to this ! ” she thought. She 
cried out what tears she had for the occasion, 
and then slipped off, across lots, to find Dea- 
con Watson, he who had so often settled their 
childish quarrels. At supper-time Oliver 
went home to an empty house, a thing not 


Mine and Thine, 


41 


very unusual, since it was understood that the 
children ” should come home to tea when- 
ever they felt inclined. But on this occasion, 
Oliver perceived that Avis was avoiding the 
interview with himself that must prove em- 
barrassing in their present mood, and this in- 
creased his displeasure. He had half a mind 
not to join her at his mother’s tea-table ; yet, on 
the other hand, he felt that there was nobody 
like mother, after all. So he went across the 
fields, and into the kitchen, where he found 
Avis seated on a low stool at his father’s feet, 
one of her little hands buried up in his big 
ones, and his mother busy over the fire, very 
red in the face. He had seen Avis in this 
way scores of times, with nothing but pride 
in it, but now it irritated him. 

Is there no one to help you get supper, 
mother?” he asked, in a tone that reproved 
Avis. “ That kettle is too heavy for you ; let 
me fetch the tea-pot.” 

Mrs. Watson gave him a grateful smile. 
Though she was dauntless in energy, and 
proud of her strength, she had enough of the 


42 


Mine and Thine, 


woman in her to like to be looked after. And 
Oliver made an ostentatious display of his 
skill in the culinary line, which Avis was keen 
enough to perceive and be displeased at. 

There would have been an awkward scene 
at the tea-table, if Deacon Watson had seen, 
as his wife did, how things stood between the 
children. But all he saw was that the two 
human beings he loved best, or at least, next 
to his wife, had come home, and so he kept 
up a flow of genial, kindly talk that concealed 
the silence of the rest of the party. 

^‘Oh, how I do wish Oliver was like his 
father ! ’’ thought Avis. ‘‘ He looks exactly 
like him, and how can he, when they’re so 
different ? ” 

“ If Avis loved me half as well as mother 
does, I should be satisfied,” mused Oliver. 
‘‘And I do wish she’d learn mother’s way of 
making bread.” 

In the course of a few days their mutual 
disgust with each other blew over. They 
fancied everything stood on as firm a founda- 
tion as before. 


Mine and Thine, 


43 

It was only a little thing,” Avis whispered 
in Oliver’s ear. I didn’t mind it much.” 

“Nor I either,” returned Oliver. “Another 
time we’ll be more careful how we get drawn 
into such silly disputes.” 

“ Why, I was not silly ! ” cried Avis. “ Of 
course I had to stand up for dear ma’s horse ! ” 

And then she wished that offensive word 
“ ma ” hadn’t slipped out. 

“You know that was not the point. You 
know, perfectly well, that you were angry be- 
cause I did not run and ask you if I might 
sell him.” 

“ I wasn’t in the least angry.” 

Oliver began to whistle, and Avis began to 
cry. 

“ I wish dear mother was alive,” she sobbed. 

Oliver turned on his heel and went off. 
Avis washed up the tea things, looked in the 
glass to see if her eyes were very red, and 
after a little hesitation went to the prayer- 
meeting, as she usually did when particularly 
unhappy. Not that she had ever found spe- 
cial consolation there, but from a dim, remorse- 


44 


Mine and Thine. 


ful feeling that if she went there often she 
would win the right to feel a little more com- 
placently toward herself. For she was not nat- 
urally conceited, and was fast losing the effect of 
the flatteries she had received at school, under 
the sense of Oliver’s dissatisfaction with her. 

At this time the village was divided into 
two parties on the subject of a projected rail- 
road. Deacon Watson objected to it, and had 
some strong men on his side. Oliver, on the 
contrary, full of youth and ambition, was for 
pushing the thing right through ; and Avis, in 
a fit of perversity, had opposed her husband, 
and enlisted with his father. Of course, some 
hard words were spoken on all sides, and on 
this particular evening Deacon Watson under- 
took to set things straight. 

Brethren,” he began, “ it aint no use for 
us to come here and pray together, unless our 
hearts are at peace with one another. WeVe 
all got a little riled about that railroad, and 
maybe weVe all said things we oughter not. 
I’m afraid I have, for one. And if I have. I’m 
sorry, and hope you’ll forgive me.” 


Mine and Thine, 


45 


There was silence throughout the room. 
Who had ever heard other than words of love 
and kindness from this gentle, genial man? 
Everybody felt condemned at his attempt to 
assume the sins of which he was so guiltless. 
This silence at last became so oppressive, that 
the deacon rose to his feet again. 

“ IVe been thinking,” he said, “ that what I 
need is to have my heart all broke to pieces. 
When I get down on my knees, and the Lord 
shows me what a poor sinner I am, and yet is 
just as good to me as if I wasn’t — I declare I 
don’t know what to make of it. But when I 
go back to my work I feel myself growing 
lofty again. Brethren, let’s get away down • 
low, among the poor sinners, and keep there. 
Then when the Lord wants us He’ll know 
where to find us.” There was something in- 
expressibly tender and humble in the way in 
which these words were spoken. 

I wish Oliver was here,” thought Avis, 

“ and would take pattern by his father.” 

But it did not occur to her to imitate him 
herself. She found all the rest of the exer- 


46 


Mine and Thine, 


cises most tedious. Everybody who spoke 
gave the impression that the road to the king- 
dom lay through the land of bemoanings. 
Everybody complained of a cold heart, and 
bewailed the low state of religion. 

“ What is there in father that is so different 
from the rest ? Avis asked herself before she 
went to sleep. I’d ask him, but he wouldn’t 
know. I wonder how he keeps himself so 
sweet and happy all the time ? It isn’t be- 
cause mother, never snaps him up, for I’ve 
heard her take his head right off his shoul- 
ders.” 

Thus musing she fell asleep, and when she 
awoke next morning Oliver had gone to his 
work. Once more their quarrelsome humor 
blew over, and for some weeks they walked 
together in a harmony that both found so 
pleasant that each resolved to make it last for- 
ever. 

“ It is always little things that we fall out 
about,” said Oliver. “ It all seems so ridicu- 
lous afterwards.” 

Yet notwithstanding the outward peace. 


Mine and Thine. 


47 


Avis was not at rest. She found Oliver’s am- 
bition and incessant stir and bustle a good 
deal in her way. He never could find time to 
read aloud to her, or to have her read aloud 
to him, and she had thought so much 
of carrying on his education in that way ! 
And she thought it his duty to go to 
the Wednesday evening prayer-meeting, but 
he always contrived to have some pressing en- 
gagement on hand. She remembered a time 
when nothing would tempt him to stay away 
from this meeting because she was sure to be 
there, and if it was pleasant to be with her 
once, why wasn’t it pleasant now ? 

When, half-crying, she asked him this ques- 
tion, he laughed at Her, declaring that she was 
no longer a novelty, and that he liked her bet- 
ter at home than abroad. 

It was a great relief to her starving heart 
when there came to it her first-born son. All 
that was sweet and feminine in her came out 
to meet and care for this child. 

It be.ats me out and out,” said Mrs. Wat- 
son, “ to see Avis with that baby. I always 


48 


Mine and Thine. 


thought she was nothing but a silly little spoilt 
child. But she’d give her heart’s blood to that 
young one.” 

“Yes, I’m getting very fond of her,” quoth 
the deacon. 

“You’ve been going that way so long that 
I should think it was about time you’d got 
there,” was the conjugal response. 

Avis was, indeed, all devotion to her child, 
who did not, however, make many demands 
upon her. He vegetated on from day to day, 
a jovial, healthy boy, who did not know how 
to cry, and did know how to sleep. The love 
she could not pour out on her husband, she 
lavished on this little idol. Making his tiny 
garments, nursing him to sleep, taking him 
home to see grandpa and grandma — these were 
her apparently innocent joys. Oliver was very 
fond of him too, and as baby’s face soon be- 
gan to cloud and his lips to quiver if mamma’s 
did, papa had to learn a little more self-con- 
trol than he had hitherto done. 


IV. 


M eanwhile public interests must go 
on as well as babies’, and Oliver, who 
had long been called a “ rising man,” had risen 
to the height of his ambition, and become Su- 
perintendent of the new railroad, which was to 
make him both rich and influential. Intent 
on her own duties and pleasures. Avis gave 
him little sympathy in his new projects, and 
he fell into the habit of talking them over 
with his mother. 

Mother s got a long head,” he was contin- 
ually saying to Avis, in a tone that implied, to 
her fancy, that she had none. 

“ I’d rather have a heart, if I’d got to 
choose,” she replied coldly, and then fell to 
talking nonsense to her boy in tender tones 
that she used to reserve for her husband only. 
She had been disposed to make an idol of 
Oliver if he would let her ; but as he did not 

( 49 ) 


4 


50 


Mine and Thine, 


prove quite the ideal husband he had promised 
to be in the days when he was seeking her, 
she turned her affections to her child. Yet 
they had their snatches of pleasure in each 
other, and as soon as the baby got upon its 
feet, and Oliver was not afraid to touch him, 
lest he should fall to pieces on his hands, the 
young father became very proud of his son 
and heir. He became a certain bond of union, 
for he was a piece of property in which each 
had an equal share. Avis had always been 
annoyed at a habit Oliver had of speaking of 
what she considered her farm, as his. She re- 
garded the property as her own, and consid- 
ered herself as most generous in permitting 
him to come and live on it with her. He, on the 
contrary, felt that she might consider herself as 
most fortunate in securing such services as his. 

I think you might say ‘ our farm,’ ” she 
said to him one day when, feeling out of 
humor, she was ready to make the first straw 
she could pick up an aggressive weapon. 
“ Knowing it is mine, it must sound strangely 
to hear you always speaking of it as yours.” 


Mine and Thine, 


51 


Then why don’t you say ^ our baby ’ in- 
stead of speaking of him as if he were all 
yours? However, such trifles are not worth 
speaking about. By the by, did I tell you that 
old Gleason had subscribed handsomely to the 
railroad ? ” 

# 

If you’ve told me once you’ve told me a 
dozen times. Why ! if here isn’t another 
tooth ! Just think of it, Oliver, baby’s got 
another tooth ! ” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” returned Oliver, ab- 
stractedly, “ and I can coax him to put down 
his name for a thousand more.” 

Avis turned away in disdain, and after one 
or two more attempts to get her to take in- 
terest in his interests, he went off, as usual, to 
somebody who did. 

The railroad was at last completed, and if 
it ran over a good many prejudices and pas- 
sions, it did its work in happy unconsciousness 
thereof. The value of Deacon Watson’s farm 
was increased by the new order of things that 
supplanted the old-fashioned ways of the past, 
and Oliver’s was equally so. But the two 


52 


Mine and Thine, 


men were quite differently affected b y this 
fact. The deacon, who loved to study God’s 
providences as the most interesting book he 
knew, next to his Bible, read in this one an in- 
vitation to double all his subscriptions to 
benevolent objects, and sent his minister such 
a present as' drove that half-starved worthy 
straight to his knees with thanksgivings. Oli- 
ver, on the contrary, opened a bank account 
in a neighboring town, with the triumphant 
thought that he was now in a fair way to 
wealth. His farm, for he always called it his, 
to the constant, but secret, annoyance of Avis, 
was in admirable condition, and he whispered 
to himself that one of these days, when his 
father was gone, the number of his acres would 
be doubled. So he buttoned his coat over a 
self-complacent if not a happy heart, and went 
on his way rejoicing. 

“ I wish I knew what ails my baby,” Avis 
said to him one morning. “ He was very 
restless last night.” 

‘‘ Babies always are when they’re teething,” 
returned Oliver. I wish, though, that this 


Mine and Thine, 


53 


youngster would let me sleep after my hard 
day’s work. You ought to seethe hay we got 
in yesterday. Why, what’s the matter now ? 
What on earth are you crying about ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I suppose I’m nervous 
about my baby.” 

“ Why don’t you get mother to run in, 
then?” 

You always talk as if your mother knew 
everything ! ” replied Avis. And the fact is, 
she doesn’t know half as much about babies 
as I do. She’s forgotten all she learned when 
she was young and had you.” 

Oliver stood looking at the baby a minute 
or two, said to himself there wasn’t likely 
anything ailed it, to speak of, and went off to 
his work. Yet the child was really very ill, 
and when he came in to dinner, the little 
creature lay almost unconscious in its mother’s 
arms. 

Don’t take on so. Avis,” he entreated, see- 
ing her distress. “ I’ll go for mother, and send 
for the doctor, and do everything under the 
sun, if you’ll only stop crying.” 


54 


Mine and Thine. 


But this was a case beyond mother," be- 
yond the “ doctor," beyond poor Avis’ tears 
and prayers. The little pilgrim was soon to 
enter upon a journey which should lead him 
away out of sight, out of the reach of implor- 
ing hands, out of the hearing of listening 
ears. They sat around him through a few 
hours of suspense and pain, and then he stole 
noiselessly away. 

And now, when her heart was breaking. 
Avis did not fly to her husband for comfort, 
but instinctively turned to the faithful heart 
that had so often warmed and sheltered her. 

Father ! " she said, pitifully, and he took 
her in his arms with the old words set to a 
new and tenderer tone. 

“Yes, dear. I’m getting very fond of you ! ’’ 
And then he knelt down, and with tears gave 
up the cherished little one to God. “ We 
mustn’t say a word," he whispered, as they 
rose from their knees. “ He was God’s before 
he was ours. It’s hard, it’s dreadful hard, to 
say ‘ Thy will be done,’ but we must say it, 
every one of us." 


Mine and Thine. 


55 


ril never say it, never ! cried Avis. “ It 
isn’t right to take away all I had. What made 
God give him to me if He was going to take 
him away ? I never asked for him. God sent 
him of His own accord. And it’s a cruel, 
cruel thing to take him away ! ” 

“Yes, it is,” thought Oliver. “There’ll 
never be any more peace in this house. That 
baby was all that kept us two together. 
Don’t take on so. Avis,” he said, coaxingly. 
“ I’ll try to be good to you, and make you for- 
get baby.” 

Avis shrank away. 

“ Make me forget him ! ” cried she. “ That’s 
just the way you men talk. My precious 
little darling ” she said, snatching the lifeless 
form from Mrs. Watson’s arms, “how could 
you go away and leave your poor mother all 
alone! Didn’t you know you’d break her 
heart all to pieces ? ” 

“Don’t talk to her; let her be, Oliver,” 
whispered his mother. “ It’s just the way her 
ma took on when them boys died. And Avis 
is going to be her ma right over again.” 


56 


Mine and Thine, 


The image of Mrs. Benson, withered, yel- 
low, sighing, weeping, and reading novels, 
came up unpleasantly before Oliver’s vision. 

I’d give all I’ve got in the world to bring 
that baby to life again,” he said. ^‘Avis never 
used to be a bit like her mother, but if she 
goes on crying at this rate, she’ll get to be her 
perfect image. And doesn’t she suppose it’s 
something to me to lose such a splendid 
boy?” 

Unfortunately this did not occur to Avis. 
The baby had always been to her my ” baby ; 
her own love for it seemed so vast in com- 
parison with Oliver’s sentiment toward it 
that she looked down upon it with contempt. 

Do go away, everybody ! ” she said, when 
all there was to say and do had been said and 
done. “ Oliver, you go home to tea with your 
mother. I’m going to bed, myself; my head 
aches, and my heart aches, and the whole of 
me aches.” 

“ Poor little girl ! ” said the deacon. He 
would have liked to put her in baby’s cradle, 
if he could, and rock her to sleep. But she 


Mine and Thine. 


57 


crept away, and the three sat together in sad- 
ness and silence. Mrs. Watson made tea, and 
her husband and Oliver took some, but her 
own cup remained untouched. Her heart 
was aching for her son ; what sort of a home 
had Avis made for him, and what sort of a 
home was she going to make ? Something 
was wrong, somewhere, and so she told her 
husband as soon as they got home. 

But the deacon couldn’t see it. He said he 
hoped to see a more submissive spirit in Avis 
in time; “But the fact is, I’m getting fond of 
her ! 

Yet he prayed, with sweet, childlike faith, 
for the sorrowful little heart, and as he rose 
from his knees, said, with tears : 

“ I never had anything come so near me as 
this. I feel sorrowful, and beat out, and joy- 
ful, all at once.” 

“ I don’t see any sense in being joyful,” 
said Mrs. Watson. “ What is there to be joy- 
ful about ? ” 

“ Ah, that I don’t know. Only Tve always 
took notice that the Lord wraps up His best 


58 


Mine and Thine. 


things inside of them that don’t look pleasant 
on the outside.” 

Well, I thought you was one of the sort 
to take on dreadfully if anything happened 
to that baby. You seemed all bound up in 
it.” 

“ So I was. But I don’t want to be all 
bound up in anything but God. I’m sorry He’s 
hurt Avis and Oliver, but I’m glad He’s hurt 
rne. I needed it.” 

“ I’m sure I don’t know anybody that 
needed it less. To hear you talk, people 
would think you was the very off-scouring of 
the earth, you that wouldn’t hurt a fly ! ” 

The deacon had long ceased to argufy ” 
with his wife, as he called it. He was better 
at believing and praying than he was at 
speech-making. And when it became neces- 
sary to decide where the baby’s little grave 
should be, and Avis said, of course, “ right 
alongside of dear ma,” he silenced Oliver’s 
objections by his own acquiescence, though it 
was an unheard-of thing to bury a Watson 
among Bensons. 


Mine and Thine, 


59 


‘'“Humor the little thing, humor her,” he said. 
“ If it’s any comfort tocher to have her baby’s 
grave right under her window, why, let her.” 

“ But the Watsons have always been buried 
together,” said Oliver. " And I don’t want 
my boy laid alongside of Mrs. Benson. She’ll 
be crying over him, even though she’s dead. I 
never saw her when she wasn’t crying, and 
Avis is going on just like her.” 

Y es, Avis cried day and night ; she grew 
thin and pale, and black circles formed them- 
selves under her eyes. When Oliver tried to 
comfort her she accused him of never having 
loved the child ; and when, in an awkward 
way, he made efforts to divert her mind from 
its sole object of thought, she reproached 
him with taking more interest in his railroad 
stock than in her sorrow. 

And when all this, as well as past habits, 
formed by her absorption in her child, drove 
him to his mother, she upbraided him with 
neglecting her when she needed him most. 
His life with her became intolerable, and from 
a good-tempered, he degenerated into an ill- 


6o 


Mine and Thine. 


tempered man, and began to find fault in his 
turn. He complained that she had lost all of 
her good looks ; that she took no pains to 
please him ; that there was nothing properly- 
cooked ; and that the house was so untidy 
that he was ashamed to let his mother set foot 
in it. There came, at last, an explosion, 
caused by a tiny spark. 

‘‘ ril tell you what it is. Avis,” Oliver be- 
gan one night at the tea-table ; if you keep 
up this incessant crying and moaning I shall 
jump out of the window. You got along 
without the baby before you had him, and I 
don’t see why you can’t now. I’m sure I’d 
give everything to have him back if I could, 
but you see I can’t. And to have you going 
on so, month after month, looking and acting 
just as your mother did, riles me up so that 
I can’t so much as eat in peace.” 

Avis responded by a fresh gush of tears, 
and did really look so old, so untidy, so wo- 
begone, that she was enough to try the pa- 
tience of a better man than Oliver. ^‘And 
the bread is sour, too,” he pursued, with 


Mine and Thine, 


6i 


growing disgust. I do wish you’d make 
bread like my mother’s.” 

And I wish you’d go back and live with 
your mother !” cried Avis. ^‘You are there 
half the time, as it is.” 

“You’d better take care what you say.” 

“ So had you.” 

“ Well, this cat-and-dog life don’t agree with 
me, and I believe I’ll take you at your word. 
How soon shall I go ? ” 

“ Whenever you please.” 

“ A fine piece of work you’ll make of this 
farm ! ” 

“ I’m able to take care of it ! ” cried Avis, 
rousing herself. “You’ll see now what I’ve 
got in me. You can carry off all the stock 
you’ve bought, and the mowing-machine, and 
half of everything.” 

“ I’ll make out a list, and divide everything 
fair and square,” he said. He left the table, 
and began to write. His hands trembled 
with passion as he did so, for in parting with 
his wife he must part with the beautiful farm 
he had so long spoken of as his. 


62 


Mine and Thine, 


As to Avis, her sudden fit of anger had sub- 
sided, and the thought of the lonely, desolate 
life that lay before her, made her shudder. 

I wish I hadn’t answered him back,” she 
thought. What made me ? But it’s done, 
and can’t be undone.” 

She cast a furtive glance at Oliver. He, 
too, had cooled down, and was sitting in 
gloomy silence. 

There is one thing we can’t divide,” he 
said. 

Struck by his manner. Avis drew near. 

“ What is it, Oliver? ” 

“ Our baby’s grave ! ” 

She started, and cried. 

“ Oh, Oliver, you may have everything else, 
everything ! the whole farm, all the horses, all 
the cows, and I’ll go away somewhere to live, 
only leave me my baby ! ” 

In her desperation she had got her arms 
around him, and was looking into his face with 
an appealing expression that smote him to the 
quick. 

‘^A man and a woman who’ve got a little 


Mine and Thine. 63 

grave between them, can’t part,” he said 
hoarsely. It won’t do. Avis.” 

“ No, it won’t do ! ” she repeated. “ I’ve 
lived a year since we first spoke of it.” 

“ So have I. It didn’t seem as if there 
would be anything left in the world, when I’d 
lost my little girl.” 

And so the big boy and his little girl hushed 
up their quarrel, and entered upon some festal 
days that made their home, as they fancied, a 
sort of Paradise. Neither of them reflected 
that no radical change had been wrought in 
their characters, and that misunderstandings 
were sure to recur when this new honeymoon 
was over. 

Yet only a few weeks had passed when . Oli- 
ver, recovered from his terror at the prospect 
of losing wife and lands, began to absorb him- 
self in outside affairs, and when Avis’ grief 
once more resumed its sway, making her unde- 
sirable in his eyes. 

Things were resuming their old tone, and 
both were in fault, when one day, early in the 
spring, they were brought together by an 


64 


Mine and Thine. 


event that gave a shock to the whole com- 
munity. Deacon Watson was driving his wife 
home from a neighboring town, and approached 
a railroad-crossing just in time to be caught by 
the locomotive of a train not due at that 
hour. Mrs. Watson was instantly killed, and 
the deacon received injuries that disabled him 
for life. All petty squabbling retreated in 
dismay before this terrible event. In his grief 
at the loss of his mother, Oliver began to ap- 
preciate Avis’ sorrow over her baby, as he 
had never done, and Avis forgot herself, for a 
time, in her sympathy for him. She consent- 
ed, without hesitation, to remove to the dea- 
con’s house, to assume the care of him, and 
the new household was soon harmoniously 
formed. But Satan himself, as it seemed to 
her, lost no time in bidding her stand up for 
her rights. “ Why should Oliver have his full 
liberty, and go and come when he pleases, 
while you are shut up with his father? He 
isn’t your father.” And again : 

What do you think Oliver is doing now 
but taking away the fence that has divided 


Mine and Thine, 


6s 


the two farms, so as to throw them into one ? 
A fence made by your grandfather, and re- 
newed by your father! Much he feels his 
mother’s death 1 ” 

“ ril let him see that if he won’t look out 
for me, I can look out for myself,” she con- 
tinued, and the next time Oliver came home 
to dinner, it was not ready, and to his remon- 
strance came the fretful answer : 

“ I can’t be nurse and cook at once.” 

And Oliver replied : 

“ If you begrudge doing for my father the 
little he needs, I can find plenty of people 
who would think it a privilege to wait upon 
him. If I had known you were going to be 
so selfish,” — and then followed an ominous 
silence. 


5 


HE deacon, sitting all day long in his 



arm-chair, suffering from the shock of 
his wife’s death, and the injuries he had him- 
self received, soon caught the jarring notes 
that made discord where there should have 
been sweet music. For a long time he did 
not speak of it to either husband or wife. But 
he told the sad story to Him whom he was 
wont to consult in every emergency, day after 
day, lamenting it in His presence, and praying 
for his “ poor boy,” his “ poor little girl,” in 
tender, pitiful accents. 

And at last the time for speaking to them 
came on this wise. Oliver had been unusually 
thoughtless of Avis’ comfort, and she unusu- 
ally provoking, and they had parted in dis- 
gust — he to deposit money, she to resume her 
household tasks. 


( 66 ) 


Mine and Thine. 6/ 

“Avis,” said the trembling voice of the dea- 
con, “ it won’t do.’* 

“ What won’t do ? ” she said, approaching 
him. 

“ For us three not to live in peace together. 
I’ve been humbling myself before the Lord 
about it, and asking Him to forgive me, and to 
help me to turn over a new leaf, and He says 
He will.” 

“You can’t think how ashamed of myself 
you make me feel, when you talk so,” said 
Avis. “ If everybody was like you, we should 
all live like angHs, and there’d be no need of 
going to heaven. But Oliver aggravates me, 
and I aggravate him, and I know we don’t 
make a pleasant home for you.” 

“ It isn’t that that worries me,” said the 
deacon, with a quivering lip. “ It is sitting 
here and thinking whether it is a pleasant 
home for the Lord Jesus. And I’m getting 
so fond of Him.” 

“A pleasant home for the Lord Jesus!” 
These words rang in Avis’ ears all day long ; 
went with her to her pillow ; rose up with 


68 


Mine and Thine, 


her the next morning. Her mind ran back to 
the day when she and Oliver became one, and 
entered her mother’s house, there to make for 
each other a home, without one single thought 
that in doing so they were to make a sanctu- 
ary for a diviner resident. She recalled so 
many selfish, petty ways of her own, so many 
of Oliver’s, and looked at them in the light of 
this thought, till she felt like going and hid- 
ing herself away to be seen no more. But 
that she could not do, and then the idea came 
to her, like a good angel, that it was not too 
late to turn over the new leaf their father had 
spoken of. 

I have not made a pleasant home for Oli- 
ver,” she said, remorsefully, to herself, and 
I’m afraid I never can. But if the One 
father is ‘getting so fond of’ will come and 
live here with us. I’ll try and make it a place 
fit for Him to stay in.” 

She went about her household tasks with a 
new purpose warm at her heart. This home, to 
which, in silent thought, she had invited her 
Divine Guest, should be graced with that order 


Mine and Thine, 


69 


and neatness she would choose should reign 
there were He to be visibly present. There 
should be the kindly service to father that 
should win his smile. There should be the 
loving word to Oliver that would fall gently 
on his ear. 

But all this, so beautiful in theory, was hard 
in practice. A purpose is not a life.” A 
host of bad habits met her on the very 
threshold of her new one. She found herself 
idle and listless where she meant to be ener- 
getic and zealous. It was easier to speak the 
irritable rather than the conciliatory word. 
And she found herself faltering, vacillating, 
almost despairing. 

At the same time she began to mark a 
change for the better in Oliver. It was the 
reflection of her own improvement ; but she 
did not know that, because she found more 
and more to hate in herself. But it was be- 
coming very sweet to think that in all she 
said and did she was trying to please a new 
and dear Friend. She caught herself asking 
Him continually how He chose to have her 


70 Mine and Thine, 

do this or that, whether she was right here or 
wrong there, what else there was she could do 
for Him ; and the more she forgot herself, and 
gave up her own ways and plans, the more 
peaceful, the more happy she grew. In her 
simple life there were no great events ; her bat- 
tles, when she fought any, were with very little 
things, but little things make wondrous com- 
binations. The avalanche that destroys a whole 
village is made up of single snow-flakes that 
come down on noiseless footsteps. The honey 
that fills the hive was stolen from ten thou- 
sand flowers. Blessed is the sphere of woman ! 
She need not go abroad for work, nor lift up 
her voice in the streets. Let her be only a 
flower, full of sweetness, and the bees will find 
her out, plunge into her bosom, and carry 
sweets away. Ah, how much the Bible 
means, when it says, It is more blessed to 
give than to receive ! ” And now let us look 
into some of the homely details of Avis’ new 
life. 

She had inherited from her mother an in 
ordinate love for novel-reading, and all othei 


Mine and Thine, 71 

books were distasteful to her. But here was 
Oliver’s father, sanctified by suffering, and 
with heavenward glances that made such read- 
ing insipid, needing the use of her eyes every 
day. Once she would have said that it was 
bad enough to have to read aloud, without 
being restricted in her choice of books. But 
now she yielded, gracefully and kindly, and 
then came the reward in elevated tastes. 
What she read from courtesy she began to 
appreciate and to love. 

Then there had been a sore spot about her 
mother’s arm-chair. She thought that because 
it had been her mother’s seat through so many 
years, it belonged to her as a matter of simple 
justice. But from the outset, Oliver always 
planted himself in it whenever it seemed most 
sacred to her, or she fancied herself most 
fatigued. He often wondered, when she gave 
him an unpleasant word, what he had done to 
deserve it, for his selfishness toward his wife 
was more thoughtless than willful. But she 
gave up the chair now, and found in doing so 
that she was not feeble or in need of a luxuri- 


72 


Mine and Thine. 


ous seat, and that there is no repose like that 
of a peaceful conscience. Then as to the 
bread — ^what a triumph over herself she gained 
on the day that she surprised and delighted 
her husband by making it as the late blessed 
Mrs. Watson had done ! It may be necessary 
for a man to go to the stake. For a woman it 
is e'nough to renounce the precepts and the 
example of her own mother for those of her 
husband’s. 

But it will be objected, “This little wife is 
losing her individuality, if she ever had any, 
and is becoming, not everything to all men, 
but everything to two. Is she not training 
her husband to increase of selfishness, and to 
that tyranny to which men are prone ? ” 

It is true that if, at the beginning of her 
married life, a woman yields to her husband a 
weak, undiscriminating subservience, she will 
lower the tone of his character as well as that of 
her own. But no man can walk, hand in hand, 
with a wife who yields, not to him, but to God, 
whose docility is that of a sanctified heart, with- 
out becoming himself elevated and ennobled. 


Mine and Thine, 73 

Let us look into the matter a little more 
closely. 

Do you mind my going to spend the night 
with Mrs. Lane ? Avis asks. 

*‘Yes, I do mind it. I hate to have you 
wear yourself out over that sick woman, full 
of whims as she is.’' 

‘‘All sick people are full of whims. And I 
don’t mind hers in the least. And it doesn’t 
wear me out ; you know I shall come home 
in the morning as bright as a dollar.” 

“ Well, I’m getting ashamed of myself. 
You do all the nice, kind things, and I sit by 
and look on. What’s got into you ? ” He 
gets out the sleigh, wraps her in the buffalo 
robe, almost teases her with anxiety lest she 
should -take cold ; and as he carries her over 
the snow to their friend’s door, he says : 

“ Now promise me, little girl, that you won’t 
tire yourself out, and that you won’t under- 
take to walk home in the morning. I’ll come 
for you bright and early.” 

And then he goes home, and sits over the 
fire with his father, and they fall into pleasant 


74 


Mine and Thine, 


discourse, first about the dear little wife, and 
then about the dear Friend who has changed 
her so. She hasn’t spoken a word about it 
to me,” Oliver says, seriously. “ I had no 
idea what had got into her.” 

“ Don’t let her get ahead of you,” the dea- 
con replies. “A man and his wife oughter 
keep step with each other.” 

*‘Yes, that’s so,” Oliver assents. But it 
is easier for women to be good than it is for 
us men. It seems to come natural to Avis, 
now she’s got started. But I shouldn’t know 
where to begin.” 

Yet he proves that he does know, for an 
hour later, when stillness had settled down 
upon the house, he kneels, for the first time in 
a good many years, beside his bed, and asks 
that the secret taught his little wife may be 
taught to him. And he is thoroughly in ear- 
nest in his prayer, for an amended, ever amend- 
ing life has preached to his heart, and taught 
him to believe in Jesus Christ, and in the 
power of His gospel and His grace. So true 
it is that no one runs the heavenward race 


Mine a?id Thine, 


75 


alone ; but, as has been quaintly remarked, 
“when He says, ‘Draw me^ He adds, ‘and 
we will run after thee.’ ” 

But all Oliver’s habits were against him. He 
had fairly compassed himself with worldly 
cares that withstood him at every point. He 
not only owned more land, and more produc- 
tive land, than any man in the county, but he 
owned more railroad stock, and more bank 
stock. Nothing could go on but he knew all 
about it, and nothing prospered in which he 
had no hand. He was public-spirited, and 
was always getting up schemes for the gen- 
eral good ; now he had a project for a course 
of lectures that were to complete the educa- 
tion of the rising generation ; now a scheme 
for introducing water into every house ; and 
next news, he was impressed with the fact 
that the Rev. Abraham Penfield was getting 
old, and that it was time to gather him to his 
fathers, and find a miraculous young man to 
fill his place. 

“ It’s all doing and no thinking,” the dea- 
con whispered to himself. “ It aint good to 


76 


Mine and Thine. 


be so awfully busy. One thing is, he has to 
be two men instead of one, all along of my 
being so helpless ; but that aint all of it ; he 
is stirring by nature, and never was one of the 
sort to sit still two minutes at a time.” 

I want to have tea right away,” Oliver 
broke in on these reflections. “ Tm going to 
have the choir meet here to sing. That will 
please you, father. I’m sure.” 

It did not occur to him to add that this 
was Avis’ proposition ; and she was willing to 
let him have the credit of it. It certainly 
made a delightful evening for the patient old 
man, who lay back in his chair listening to his 
favorite hymns, with happy tears rolling down 
his cheeks. 

“ It’s just next to going to heaven,” he said, 
as Avis was preparing him for the night. I 
don’t know what I’ve done to make the Lord 
so good to me.’' 

‘^And I’m sure I don’t know what I have, 
either,” said Avis. 

“ I guess it’s just His way,” said the dea- 


con. 


Mine and Thine. 


77 


“ I wish it was His way with me,” said Oli- 
ver, when his wife repeated these words. “ But 
you and father seem to have all the good 
times to yourselves. I thought if I had the 
choir here, and heard so many hymns sung, I 
should get into a good frame against to-mor- 
row. But I got to thinking about that fel- 
low, Josiah Sweetsir. He cheated me on that 
last yoke of oxen. Letting alone you and 
father, and a few of your set, I don't see that 
church members are any better, when it 
comes to a trade, than people who make less 
pretense.” 

“ I think we ought to judge a church by 
the best people in it,” replied Avis. “ Besides, 
when two men have a piece of business be- 
tween- them, I suppose one of them always 
gets the best of it. And, this time, why 
shouldn’t it be Josiah, instead of you ?” 

Well, I have the name of being good at a 
bargain, and it isn’t very pleasant to be come 
round by such a fellow as Josiah Sweetsir. I’ll 
be even with him yet, though, you see if I 
don’t.” 


78 


Mine and Thine. 


He sat up late looking over his accounts, 
and so slept late next morning. Avis had to 
go to church without him. This was nothing 
new, but it gave her unusual pain, because he 
had promised to turn over a new leaf in this 
respect, and she had really seen in him a de- 
sire for a new life. 

‘‘We must pray more for him,’’ the old 
deacon said. “And as to patience, we can’t 
have too much of that. When I think what 
the Lord Jesus has to put up with in me, I 
feel like putting up with everything in every- 
body.” 

And when Oliver found that neither his 
father nor his wife uttered a word of reproach 
to him, he felt greatly ashamed. 


VI. 


‘‘TF I live till next Sunday, I’ll go to meet- 
A ing all day,” Oliver said to Avis. If our 
minister was only a young man, it wouldn’t 
come so hard as it does now.” 

I’m sure I never could look up to and love 
a young man as I do Mr. Penfield,” said Avis, 
with a sigh. But if anybody else would suit 
you better. I’m sure I haven’t a word to say.” 

“ He puts things iii such a melancholy way. 
It is a good deal as if when a fellow is going 
to start on a voyage, feeling as most young 
fellows would, somebody should come and put 
his hand on his shoulder, and say, ‘ Everything 
looks very fine and prosperous now ; but you 
must not forget for a moment that your ship 
may spring aleak, or take fire, and then what 
would become of you?’ You won’t pretend 
that that would help to make the voyage 
pleasant ? ” 


( 79 ) 


8o 


Mine and Thine, 


“Something would depend on what the 
voyage was for.” 

“ Well, allow that it is for pleasure. There’s 
no harm in that, is there ? ” 

“ We’ve sprung a good many leaks in our 
voyage, young as we are,” replied Avis. 

“ But we haven’t gone to the bottom.” 

“ No, but if we had never had anything to 
set us to thinking, perhaps we should. You 
are so well and strong, and have so many irons 
in the fire that you have hardly any time to 
think. And it is a good deal so with every- 
body else in the village.” 

“ Yes, ’most everybody is running and rac- 
ing like a loose horse,” said the deacon. “ Sun- 
day comes once a week and hitches ’em up, or 
they’d run themselves to death.” 

“ For all that, I think the Reverend Abra- 
ham might be a little wider awake,” returned 
Oliver. “And when a man’s been hard at 
work all the week, he wants his Sundays to be 
a rest to him. But Mr. Penfield always harps 
on things that aint pleasant.” 

“ His sermons comfort me,” said Avis. 


Mine and Thine. 


8i 


‘‘ When I am listening to him I feel as if I 
didn’t care what happened to me, if I could 
only be good.” " 

“ Well, you are good ; there’s no two ways 
about that.” 

Avis shook her head, and the old deacon 
said gently : ‘‘ There is none good but God.” 

And, after a pause, he added : I kind of 

think — of course, it don’t become an old man 
like me to be positive — but I kind of think 
that sometimes when we don’t like our minis- 
ter, it’s because we aint up to him. He’s trav- 
eling on the way to Heaven, and so are we, 
but we’ve let him get ahead, and he sees 
things we can’t see ; and when he says he sees 
’em, we say we don’t see ’em, and so they aint 
there.” 

Well, now, take his sermon this afternoon,” 
said Oliver, in a confident tone. “ He says 
the best thing that can happen to a man is to 
have some great misfortune to bring him down. 
I call that sheer nonsense. It’s just as if you 
should say to a tree, ‘ Here you are, growing 
up straight and strong and green, but that isn’t 
6 


82 


Mine and Thine. 


good for you, and Fm going to take my axe 
and cut you down.’ ” 

I never was good at argufying,” replied 
the deacon. “ But Fll say this : If there 
wasn’t ever a tree cut down, what should we 
build our houses and barns with ? And if the 
Lord never cut a man down, where should we 
get people to comfort us when we’re in trouble ? 
You’ve heard me tell about them awful times 
when the Indians used to go prowling round, 
so that the men never dared to go to their 
work without taking their guns with ’em, and 
how they shot down my mother with me in 
her arms, and killed or carried off half the 
women in the village. There wasn’t a house 
where there wasn’t weeping and wailing. And 
such a spirit of love broke out there, you never 
see. Great, strong men got together and laid 
their heads on each other’s shoulders and cried 
like girls. And them that had lost the most 
was the kindest and the tenderest among ’em. 
One man was stripped of everything. They 
murdered his wife, they tortured and carried 
off his daughters, they burnt down his house. 


Mine and Thine, 


83 


And he grew so sweet, and tender, and loving, 
that them that hadn’t had half his trouble 
went to him to be comforted. The village 
was full of brothers and sisters ; you would 
have thought they hadn’t had but one father 
and mother among ’em. And when the Lord 
had brought ’em all down. He came and lifted 
of ’em up. You never see such times. They 
all turned to Him just as a lot of frightened 
little children run to their mother. And He 
spread His great wide wings over ’em all, and 
just gathered ’em in.” 

Oliver listened in silence, while Avis quietly 
wiped her eyes. The sorrow that had moved 
him for a season, and then taken wings and 
flown away, had left the print of its heavy 
footstep on her heart. She understood Mr. 
Penfield’s teachings as only those could do 
who could say, “ I have been brought low and 
He helped me.” And the thought of driving 
this good, patient, hard-working man away 
was very painful to her. Long after the rest 
of the household were asleep, she lay and 
pondered over her husband’s growing dislike 


84 


Mme and Thine. 


to one for whom she felt an ever-growing 
love. 

It seems hard that when religion is nothing 
to Oliver, and everything to me, he need mix 
himself up in parish matters,” she thought. 
“ But if he says Mr. Penfield must go, go he 
will. He’s at the head of everything, from the 
railroad down to the very bread we eat. And 
when I married him I thought I was so conde- 
scending because I had learned a little French, 
and a little music and a little painting ! ” 

She seized the first opportunity when they 
were alone together to pour out all these anx- 
ieties into her father’s ear. 

Well, dear,” he said, there’s no use in 
opposing him with words of our’n. We’ll 
just go to the Lord about it. He loves our 
minister, and He’ll keep him here, unless He 
has got some better place for him.” 

‘‘You speak as if you were so sure^ father.” 
“Yes. You see I’m getting very fond of 
Him. And setting here all day long with idle 
hands, I get to thinking about Him till He 
seems as near as can be. And when you get 


Mine and Thine, 


85 


so near you can see just how good He is ; and 
before He speaks a word you can tell what 
He’s going to do by things He’s done before.” 

“ But Oliver has got such a will.” 

“ Maybe he has. But it aint nothing to the 
Lord’s. He can topple a man’s will right over 
by just a breath. He can take a man that’s 
running one way as hot and eager as if his life 
depended on it, and turn him right round, just 
as eager to run the other way# Don’t you be 
afraid. It’ll all come right.” 

Avis stood in thoughtful silence. She had 
no such strong faith, and could not under- 
stand it. 

“ I wish I felt as you do, father,” she said, 
at last. “ But it don’t seem as if such prayers 
as mine could have anything to do with 
God’s will ; persuade Him, now, to let Mr. 
Penfield stay. I don’t so much wonder at 
your expecting Him to answer yours.” 

You see, dear, when I was first set in this 
chair and was told I’d got to stay in it all the 
rest of my life, it come hard to me. I was 
well on in years, but I was just as lively and 


86 


Mine and Thine, 


fond of work as ever. I liked to use my limbs 
just as a boy does. And when I was knocked 
to pieces, and what was left of me was set in 
this chair, says I, ‘ Now, deacon, you’re cut 
off from your work, and you’ll have nothing to 
do but to pray from morning till night. You’ve 
always said you wished you had more time to 
pray, and now you’ve got it.’ Well — well, so 
I had got the time, but I hadn’t got the spirit. 
When I’d prayed for a while I was all beat out, 
and couldn’t say another word. Well, I turned 
it over and over in my mind, and I asked that 
wonderful Man that used to pray whole nights 
at a time, what the matter was. Says He, 
‘You take it for granted that a man can make 
himself pray, and their isn’t a man in the 
world who can. You stop goading yourself 
up, as you used to goad your oxen, and leave 
it all to me.’ Well, I did. I said, ‘ Dear 
Lord, I’m a poor, ignorant old sinner, and I 
set here with nothing to do, and I want to 
spend my time praying ; but I can’t.’ And 
then He opened my eyes, and I seethe whole 
thing. He wanted me to say ‘ I can’t,’ and as 


Mine and Thine. 


87 


soon as I said it, He said, But I can / ’ Ever 
since that I know I shall get what I ask for, 
because I know my prayers are not mine ; 
they’re His ; don’t you see, dear ? And I’m 
getting so fond of Him ! ” 

Avis did not quite see, yet her faith was 
strengthened, and she felt some courage in 
asking that Oliver might be led to value their 
pastor as she did, and not raise a party against 
him. 

“ I’d ask Mr. Penfield to come to tea some 
night, only I should have to invite Mrs. Pen- 
field too,” she said. “Wouldn’t you like to 
have him come, father?” 

“Yes, dear. And don’t you be prejudiced 
against Mrs. Penfield. She means well.” 

“ I dare say she does. But she’ll be sure to 
say something Oliver won’t like. I don’t 
know what the reason is, but she always dries 
me all up. She is so solemn, and so prim, and 
talks so like a book. I suppose it is because 
I’m such a bad girl that I don’t like to hear 
her repeat verses from the Bible, and talk 
about being consistent.” 


88 


Mine and Thine, 


Something like a smile played around 
the deacon’s lips for a moment, and then he 
said : 

We must take people as we find ’em. It 
takes all kinds of trees to fill the woods. Mrs. 
Penfield lives up to all the light she’s got. I 
expect things will look different to her some 
time. She thinks now it’s her duty to speak 
what she calls a word in season to everybody. 
She’s got a plan about it in her head.” 

“Yes,” said Oliver, who now came in to 
tea, “she loads herself up with just so much 
shot, and you hear her go bang ! bang ! bang ! 
and then she quits the field without any game. 
When I was a boy I hated her like the mis- 
chief. I never went there on an errand, or 
met her anywhere else, that she didn’t ask 
me where I expected to go to when I died.” 

“ We’ve got to be so brimful of love to the 
Lord Jesus that we run over,” said the deacon. 
“And love doesn’t make anybody hate us. 
And I don’t think anybody’ll hear us go ‘ bang’ 
after that.” 

“We shall get rid of her when the Rever- 


Mhte and Thine, 


89 


end Abraham departs,” said Oliver, looking 
mischievously at Avis. She colored, for she 
felt angry and hurt at his speaking thus. The 
hasty answer rose to her lips, and flew from 
them before she had time to think. Oliver 
was quite ready to retort, and they were fast 
verging toward one of their old disputes, when 
Avis suddenly became silent. Oliver looked 
at her curiously. 

I wish I knew what has changed her so,” 
thought he. How much nicer it is than it 
used to be when she always must have the 
last word.” 

I am sorry I was angry with you,” she 
said. It was very wrong. But you know 
how kind Mr. Penfield was to us when baby 
died, and, somehow, when you make fun of 
him it seems to hurt baby, and that hurts 
me.” 

One of those sudden revulsions came over 
Oliver, for which we can account on no human 
grounds. He knew he had been most to 
blame, yet here was his little wife asking his 
pardon. And she had given him such a good 


90 


Mine and Thine, 


supper; just such things as his soul loved, 
made after his, not her, mother’s way ; it was 
a shame to tease her so.” 

‘^She shall keep her minister, for all me,” 
he thought. And so he told her that night 
before he slept. 

I’ve given it all up,” she replied, if some 
one else could do you more good.” 

“ It isn’t so much the good I’m after. I do 
not mean to say I don’t care for that, to be 
sure. But I want to be interested. I want to 
hear something new, not the everlasting old 
stor>% over and over.” 

“ The ‘ old story ’ has begun to sound new 
to me lately,” said Avis. “And it is as sweet 
as it is new. Sometimes I think I’d like to 
go about telling it to everybody.” 

“ I hope you never will,” said Oliver, nerv- 
ously. 

She looked up into his face, with a smile 
that said she wasn’t going to do that, or any- 
thing else he hoped she wouldn’t do. 

“ I know an old story that’s begun to sound 
new,” he said, looking down lovingly into the 


Mine and Thine, 


91 

bright face ; an old story that’s as sweet as 
it is new.” 

And so that cloud blew over, and Mr. Pen- 
field never knew on what a very little point 
his fate had hung. Oliver had not much edu- 
cation from books, but he had a good deal of 
the sort men pick up among men, and it was 
quite true, as Avis had said, that he could 
drive off their minister if he chose to use his 
influence in that direction. And now what 
made Avis stop short in the midst of her dis- 
cussion ? What was the hidden spring of her 
humble apology ; an apology on which so much 
turned ? It was the question that had so often 
wrought both inward and outward change : 

“Am I making this a pleasant home for the 
Lord Jesus?” 

And surely He who condescends to our low 
estate is willing to abide where this question 
is asked, even if no perfect home is ever of- 
fered Him by poor human hearts. 


VII. 

N ot long after this event, which, though 
trifling in itself, was an event in Avis’ 
quiet life, a little tremulous wail of surprise 
from not ‘‘ my baby,” but “ our baby,” an- 
nounced a new life in the house. The new- 
comer was received with far more delight than 
even their first-born. Oliver had been capti- 
vated by a brace of boys belonging to a friend 
and neighbor; these sturdy youngsters were 
quite a different affair from the infant he had 
been afraid to touch, and he realized now that 
all sturdy youngters must first be wailing 
babies. Avis received her new treasure with a 
chastened joy that lay deeper than her passion 
for her lost darling, yet was less consuming, 
for she held it lightly, as a treasure, perhaps, 
lent, not given. The old deacon looked on 
with gentle, genial smiles ; the new happiness 
(92) 


Mine and Thine, 


93 

stealing into the household was filling his lov- 
ing heart with gratitude and peace. 

“ It is a mysterious Providence/’ said the 
Reverend Mrs. Penfield, to her husband, “ that 
keeps the old deacon living on so. Mrs. Wat- 
son looks very delicate, since the bii;th of her 
infant, and when I urged her to resume her 
class in the Sunday-school, she said it would 
be impossible, because the care of her father 
was becoming almost as great as the care of 
her child.” 

“ Of course, she ought not to undertake any 
other than the work that lies at hand,” replied 
Mr. Penfield. “ I think it quite enough for a 
woman to be a good mother. And as to the 
deacon, dear old man, I bless God every day 
that he lives. I believe this church owes more 
to him than to any of us.” 

‘^You are so peculiar,” replied Mrs. Pen- 
field. “ He used to be tolerably active before 
his accident, but he can’t go round among sin- 
ners now, and I think it’s an awful thing to 
outlive your usefulness. I hope I shall not 
outlive mine.” 


94 


Mine and Thine, 


“ I hope not, my dear. But I wish I could 
convince you how much we owe to the dea- 
con for his example and his prayers. I be- 
lieve he was never so useful in his life as he is 
now. He has a faith in prayer that puts 
mine to the blush, and a sweet, tender love 
to Jesus that stimulates mine whenever I ap- 
proach him.” 

“ He is broken down a good deal ; he used 
to be so rough and noisy.” , 

“ It is not so much breaking down as soft- 
ening and refining under the influence of his 
protracted sufferings. It is beautiful to see 
how he behaves and quiets himself like a little 
weaned child.” 

But he doesn’t labor with sinners,” per- 
sisted Mrs. Penfield. I sent Rachel over 
there yesterday (she has shown such obstinacy 
and hardness of heart lately that I have 
thought of dismissing her), and he never said 
a word about her sins.” 

What did he say ? ” 

He only took hold of her hand, and 
smiled, and said : ‘ Well, my child, you see 
how happy a poor, sick old man carfbe ! ’ ” 


Mine and Thine. 


95 


“ I can imagine just how he said it. And, 
you may depend upon it, he asked to have 
the right word given him, and had it given.” 

You grow more peculiar every day,” was 
the reply, and Mrs. Penfield hugged herself 
in her own narrowness, and went her way. 
And this way was to the kitchen, where she 
found Rachel,” a young girl whom she was 
trying to bring up,” crying over the ironing- 
table, and scorching one of the reverend gar- 
ments of the family. 

What is the meaning of this ? ” was asked 
in severe tones. “ Is this the reward for all 
the good advice I have given you ? What are 
you crying about ? Have you been reading a 
novel ? And look at this shirt ! Scorched till 
it is ruined ! Rachel, I really can not allow 
things to go on so much longer. You and I 
shall have to part.” 

I didn’t mean to scorch it. The tears got 
into my eyes and blinded ’em so I couldn’t 
see. And I aint been reading no novels, 
either.” 


‘‘ Then what are you crying about ? ” 


96 


Mine and Thine, 


“ I don’t know, exactly.” 

You do know ! I insist on being told.” 

A burst of tears was the only reply. . 

“ I declare, if you haven’t set the iron right 
down on the ironing-sheet and burnt a hole 
through to the blanket ! ” 

I’m very sorry. I’ll never do it again. It’s 
all of the old deacon. To see him setting 
there, looking so white, and hear him say how 
happy he was ! And I’m young and strong 
and active, and yet aint happy. No, not one 
bit or grain.” 

I rejoice to hear you say so. No one can ex- 
pect to be happy who is at enmity with God.” 

“ I aint at enmity with Him. And it don’t 
do me a mite of good to talk to me so. It 
makes me show all my grit.” 

Mrs. Penfield sighed and looked resigned. 
Rachel seized her iron and went to work with 
a nervous zeal. 

I don’t know what to do with you, you 
hard-hearted girl,” said Mrs. Penfield, after a 
time. “ I am really afraid your day of grace 
is over.” 


Mine and Thine, 


97 


Perhaps it is.” 

“ And don’t you know where you’ll go if 
you persist in your present course ? ” 

** I suppose I do.” 

Then why don’t you turn from it ? ” 

No answer. 

“ I repeat, why don’t you turn from it ? ” 
Still no answer, but furious ironing. Mrs. 
Penfield left the field with a flushed face, and 
proceeded to her husband’s study. 

I shall have to part with Rachel,” she 
said. “ She grows more impertinent every 
day, and her hardness of heart is dreadful.” 

“ I am sorry to hear it,” was the reply, for 
Mr. Watson was asking me only yesterday if 
I knew of a little girl who could relieve his 
wife of some of her new cares, and I thought 
of Rachel. She could hold the baby and 
wait on the deacon and do many such things.” 

She is a very capable girl,” said Mrs. Pen- 
field, ‘‘ but she tries my patience so that I 
sha’n’t mind parting with her. I wish you 
would call her into the study, and labor with 
her before she goes.” Mr. Penfield obeyed, 
7 


98 


Mine and Thine. 


and a few tender, kind words unlocked the 
poor girl’s heart. 

“ I aint had a minute’s peace,” she said, 
since the old deacon spoke so good to me. 
It made me want to be just like him. But I 
didn’t know how, and I was unhappy, and 
cried, and then I scorched a shirt, and Mrs. 
Penfield, she—” 

“ Mrs. Penfield has long cared for your soul, 
and sought its best good. But she says you 
have been impertinent and careless.” 

“Yes, I have. She kept firing at me till I 
got ugly. But if I can go and live in the 
house with the old deacon, maybe the sight 
of him ’ll do me good.” 

The transfer was made, and Rachel fancied 
she had got to heaven. She certainly was on 
the way thither very soon. The atmosphere 
of love and kindness and forbearance in which 
she found herself, soon began to show its 
effect upon her, and under the old deacon’s 
quiet influence she learned to live a new 
life. 

Some months later, hearing of this, Mrs. 


Mine and Thine. 


99 

Penfield remarked that she had not, after all, 
labored in vain. 

Meanwhile the “ young deacon,” as his 
father playfully called him, was maturing in 
all sorts of sweet baby-graces, making the 
house vocal with his gladsome voice, and every 
heart warm with his winsome ways. But just 
when he reached the age when his little brother 
died, he was suddenly seized with symptoms 
of his fatal disease. This time, Oliver’s dis- 
tress was almost as great as was that of Avis. 
His heart had been growing warmer under an 
almost imperceptible, but sure Christian prog- 
ress, and this child was far more to him than 
his first-born son had been. And he dreaded 
the tearful months that he fancied would fol- 
low its death. It was a time of sore suspense 
and distress. The old deacon sat in his chair, 
and wept with them. The baby was the hu- 
man landscape of his life.” Every day de- 
veloped some new feature, offered some fresh 
variety, to his monotonous day. Yet his tears 
were not so much for himself as for his chil- 
dren ; he had gradually, and with sweet docil- 


ICX) 


Mme and Thine. 


ity, laid so many things at his Master’s feet, 
as they were called for, that it would be com- 
paratively easy to lay there one more of the 
blossoms of faith. But it is not easy to see 
those we love suffer ; we bear their burdens 
more painfully than we bear our own. And 
as long as we live in this world we shall be 
human beings ; sometimes, very human. 

“Dear Lord, look at ’em,” he whispered, 
“ look at my poor boy and my poor girl. Don’t 
be too hard upon ’em. Temper the wind to 
my shorn lamb, my dear little girl. _ Couldn’t 
a little more be laid on me, and so let them 
go ? Dear Lord, they’ve lost one ; mayn’t 
they keep this ? But I am an ignorant old- 
creature; it isn’t for me to dictate. No, I 
don’t even want to give hints. What do I 
know about it ? Thy will be done ! ” 

Such simple, childlike little prayers stole 
out of his heart on noiseless footsteps ; on un- 
seen footsteps they crept to the Ar of Him 
who is “ touched with the feeling of our in- 
firmities,” who never willingly afflicts nor 
grieves, and was only now trying the faith of 


Mine and Thine, 


lOI 


these young creatures by lifting a rod He did 
not mean to use. The baby came back to 
them, dearer than ever ; but it was to yet 
more chastened hearts, not to foolishly elated 
ones. 

Td like to go about and tell everybody all 
I’ve seen in this house,” said Rachel, who, 
having cried herself sick with grief, was now 
crying herself well with joy. “ I never see 
people behave so quiet that felt so bad.” 

Oliver was the leading mind of the village, 
and could not help knowing it. But a little 
child had led him now into depths of experi- 
ence never before penetrated. That week of 
suspense taught him lessons he never forgot, 
and made him take a stand before the public 
as a Christian man. Avis went on her way with 
a glad heart ; its selfishness fleeing before the 
Divine Guest whose presence she was always 
invoking, and happiness flowing in as fast .as 
that flowing out. The dear old father lived 
many years ; lived to see boys and girls sport 
about his chair, and his children rising up to 
call him blessed. He lived to see the Spirit 


102 


Mine and Thine, 


of God respond to his tender pleadings for 
scores of human souls who found the way to 
Heaven through his gentle guidance. He 
lived to die as a good man should, self-renounc- 
ing, self-distrusting, self-forgetting, a very child 
in his sense of his own attainments, a very 
soldier of the cross, in the reality of his achieve- 
ments. “And devout men carried him to his 
burial, and made great lamentation over him.” 


SUCH AS I HAVE. 


( "CHARLES EMMET, after the usual 
number of haps and mishaps in that 
line, had at last sailed into the quiet haven of 
married life and cast anchor there. Every- 
body congratulated him, for he had won the 
girl of his heart. Everybody congratulated 
her, for she was to walk the earth hand in 
'hand with one of the best specimens of man- 
hood, and to become refined and elevated by 
her love to him and his to her. At least, such 
was the promise the unknown future seemed 
to whisper in her ear. Why should she chal- 
lenge this promise ? Thousands had seen it 
fulfilled ; thousands had passed, in ennobling 
transition, from brfde to wife, from wife to 
mother, from mother to serene, happy old 

age, celebrated the silver, then the golden 

(103) 


104 


Such as I Have, 


wedding, and at last dropped anchor once 
more, but this time “ within the veil/’ 

But in the great drama of life we never 
know whether we have come to see tragedy 
or comedy. We see the bridal pair come 
down the aisle with chastened joy on their 
faces, we see them pass out into the world 
husband and wife, and then we must sit down 
and wait to learn what is going to happen 
next, and whether our smiles or our tears will 
greet them. Are we not always more or less 
sad at the bridal, because of the curtain that 
hides the future ? 

At all events, at this festival we may well 
be prophetically sad. 

The young husband and wife arc soon to part 
company — he to go up higher ; she, for a time, 
to disappear in a sunless valley. 

“ How can I give you up ? ” she asks him 
on her knees. “ What will there be to do, 
what to live for, when you are gone ? ” 

And how can I leave you alone, my poor 
little defenseless lamb?” he rejoins. 

But the inexorable It must be ! ” comes 


Such as I Have. 


105 


in and parts the twain. He goes up and 
goes on ; she seems to go down and to make 
no advance. 

She is a Christian girl, and though she goes 
down into a valley darker than death — for it 
is a small thing to kill the body in compari- 
son to eating all the vitality out of the soul 
— after a time she emerges from it ; for she 
has found other sufferers there, and has 
learned that what appeared to be a solitude is 
peopled with quivering human souls. She 
has her sorrow, so have they ; she sheds tears, 
but they weep too ; she is lonely and desolate 
in her grief, but so are they in theirs. She 
begins to be less absorbed in her own sad 
story, and to listen to the eventful histories of 
her fellow-sufferers. And now comes the 
query, What can I do for them ? ” 

To use a homely expression, she takes ac- 
count of stock, in order to find out what her 
possessions are before she begins to give. 

And, in the first place, she finds that she is 
not rich in money. 

They had started together, she and her 


io6 


Such as I Have. 


Charles, with very little besides their youth 
and their faith. If, out of her scanty stock, 
she undertakes to give silver and gold, it must 
be on a small scale and in self-denial. But 
this self-denial she is willing to face. 

In the next place, she has no brilliant tal- 
ents. 

She will never preach consolation with the 
tongue of the learned, or attract attention out 
of a narrow sphere. Not many, therefore, will 
stop groaning and murmuring, to hear what 
she has to say. 

Nor has she vigorous health that would 
enable her to be the skillful nurse she would 
gladly become. When she goes to the sick- 
room it must be as a star of smallest magni- 
tude, not as a sun. But she consents to “ fill 
a little space, if God be glorified.” 

But, on the other hand, she has a warm, 
loving, sympathizing heart. It has grown 
supple under discipline, and tender under the 
rod. She has heard of the sacred duty of 
giving pleasure ; ” and, since she feels herself 
incompetent for higher service, she conse* 


Such as I Have. 107 

crates herself to this. So she carefully counts 
up the ways in which this duty may be ful- 
filled, and finds, to her surprise, that its name 
is legion. 

We say of the human smile that it is in- 
stinctive. It is from no sense of duty that a 
baby gives it as a welcome home to his mother. 
But when he has become a man, and perhaps 
welcomes her to his home, his smile has be- 
come transfigured into something of which a 
little child is incapable. There is a conscious 
love and conscious expression of it. And 
now, when Agnes Emmet rose unrefreshed 
from her lonely pillow, it cost her an effort to 
give even so much as a smile to those who 
greeted her on her waking. It was so easy to 
say, by her manner of entering the breakfast 
room, “ Because I have had a tearful, wakeful 
night, I do not care how I lower upon my 
family. Why, when I am in pain, should I 
be trying to give pleasure ? Such a task is 
too trivial.” 

But it did not look trivial now to try to give 
pleasure. Word and tone and glance of the 


io8 


Such as I Have, 


eye had their sacred mission to perform ; if 
she could not speak weighty truth, she could 
give the kindly, the welcoming, the reassuring 
smile. 

And if she could not go to the hospital with 
stronger, more favored sisters, to bind up 
bleeding wounds, she could touch and bless 
bleeding hearts by the loving word, the 
sympathizing clasp of the hand, that the poor- 
est, the most unlearned, can give. Let us 
watch her progress through a single day. 

She begins it with the firm resolve that in 
its course she will do something to beautify 
some other life. She has too poor an opinion 
of herself to expect that this will be some 
great, marked service that will attract atten- 
tion and elicit gratitude. She does not hope 
to come down on the parched earth in show- 
ers, but she does hope to sparkle, one drop of 
dew, on at least one leaf or flower. Perhaps 
all she does, under the weariness with which 
she begins the day, is to try to repress or con- 
ceal that v^eariness and to speak a cheering 
word. And we are none of us too insignificant 


Such as I Have. 109 

to cast a shadow or fling sunshine over those 
with whom we dwell. All life touches and 
moves life. The canary in his cage, whom we 
admire more than we love, for he is insensible 
to caresses, can yet, if he ails and droops and 
becomes silent, affect our spirits. And this is 
but a faint image of the impression of a 
mother's heart when her joyous boy hangs his 
head, and his incessant, lively prattle becomes 
an ominous silence. The human heart was 
made by so delicate, so cunning a hand, that 
it needs less than a breath to put it out of 
tune; and an invisible touch, known only to 
its own consciousness, may set all its silvery 
bells to ringing out a joyous chime. Happy 
he, thrice blessed she, who is striving to hush 
its discords and to awaken its harmonies by 
never so imperceptible a motion ! 

Our Agnes, then, has begun her day in no 
magnificent parade of glory; she has only 
come down to breakfast with a kind thought 
in her heart that makes her face pleasant to 
look upon. She has given such as she has — 
no more, no less. She has met with some 


no 


Such as I Have, 


verses, full of Christian faith and hope, that 
she is sure will delight a poor woman who 
lives in a tenement-house, and up too many 
flights of stairs for her to climb very often. 
Other people, who knew that she was in sore 
trouble, gave her both money and good advice. 
But she received neither with the glow of 
pleasure with which she took from the hands 
of the postman the copied lines that implied 
that she had as tender a heart as women 
above her in social position. 

After the verses were copied and sent off, 
Agnes was called upon by a friend, who present- 
ed her with some choice fruit, such as her deli- 
cate health required. Her thanks were warm, 
and what they ought to have been. It is not 
gratitude we want when we do, or try to do, 
kind things. We want some proof that we 
have given the pleasure we aimed to give. 
And Agnes was learning not merely to enjoy 
favors, but to let her friends see that she en- 
joyed them. 

“ If you are quite willing,” she said, after 
admiring this basket of fruit, “ I should like 


Such as I Have, 


III 


to share this gift with a friend. He is a lonely- 
old man, and so deaf that I can not make 
him hear a word I say, though he does hear 
others whose voices are stronger.” 

Permission was given a little ungraciously. 
When shall we become noble enough to let 
our friends enjoy themselves in their own way 
rather than through our prescriptions? But 
Agnes did not observe this, and by and by, 
the poor old man, lying despondently upon 
his bed, was warmed and vivified by the 
bunch of grapes, not so much because they 
were grapes as because they said, “ You are 
not so lonely and forgotten as you fancy. One 
friend, at least, has remembered and cared for 
you.” 

And now Agnes begins to flag. She has 
used up about all her strength, and has to go 
and lie down. It is hard for young people to 
have to take care of themselves. Liberty is 
as natural to them as to sportive animals and 
little children. She felt it now. She would 
have liked to be strong and well and to run to 
and fro like other girls, for alas, poor child. 


II2 


Such as I Have, 


she was only a girl still ; a married wife, a 
widow, and yet a graceful, tender, loving girl, 
as fond of being caressed and petted as ever, 
yet robbed, on the threshold of life, of the 
manly heart that had cherished her. She felt 
unutterably lonely and sad as she lay there 
with her hands lying idly by her side. What 
were those once busy hands good for now ? 

‘‘ Are you able to see a visitor ? ” was asked 
just here. “Your cousin, Grace Leigh, has 
come.” 

“ Yes, certainly ; let her come up here, 
please.” 

She pushed the sadness that lay uppermost 
down into the depths of her heart, out of sight ; 
it could and would come up again by and by, 
but it shouldn’t annoy dear Grace now. 

Grace was full of petty trouble, and wanted 
nothing better than a sympathizing listener. 
Though she was a lovely, attractive woman, 
somehow only the women seemed to find it 
out ; and here she was, beautiful to look upon, 
with soft eyes that won your heart and soft 
hands that you loved to clasp, but an estab- 


Such as I Have, 


II3 

lished — shall we apply the words to such a 
vision ? — old maid ! 

“ I am so glad to see you ! ” said Agnes. “ I 
was lying here with nothing to do and long- 
ing £6r the right friend to come in. And you 
are just the very one. I was thinking, not 
half an hour ago, how dearly I loved you ; I 
don't believe I ever told you half how dearly ; 
did I ? ” 

“ Why, no ! ” was the surprised answer ; and 
if Grace was an old maid, and rather a tall one 
at that, she got right down on her knees by 
Agnes' couch, and their hands met in such a 
clasp as they never had before in all their 
lives. 

‘‘You can't think how much good you’ve 
done me,” she went on. “ I felt wofully out 
of sorts when I came here, and as if nobody 
in the world cared for me. You have had a 
great sorrow, I know ; I don’t mean to under- 
value it ; but Agnes, dear, I really and solemn- 
ly belieye that 

“ ‘ 'Twere better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all.’ 

8 


Such as I Have, 


114 

I have been so hungry ! I think if I had ever 
won a heart and had the first place in it for 
an hour, I could have died of that ecstasy, or 
if not, that I could have lived on the memory, 
the delicious memory of it, all the rest of my 
days ! ” 

The soft blue eyes filled with tears for an 
instant and then she went on. 

“ Perhaps it is silly in me to come and con- 
fess all this to you ; but somehow it has done 
me good ; and I don’t want you to fancy I am 
a poor disappointed, sentimental old woman. I 
seldom give way as I have done to-day. And 
no doubt He who said it was not good for 
man to be alone, sees some exceptions, and 
that mine is one of them. So kiss me now, 
and I’ll be gone.” 

She whispered a few words in Agnes’ ear 
and rose to go. They were the very words 
her young husband had often whispered, kneel- 
ing just so by her side. She realized how little 
her cousin knew their sweet meaning, and that 
made her say : 

Don’t go. Let us have a long, good talk. 


Such as I Have, 


115 

Tell me all about your poor folks, and your 
mission work, and everything.” 

Grace was only too happy to do it. The 
cloud on her brow passed away, and as she 
went on with her story, she began to realize 
that if there was loneliness in her life, there 
was also richness and fullness there. 

“A great many people rise up and call you 
blessed,” said Agnes, after listening nearly an 
hour to an animated, often amusing descrip- 
tion of her cousin’s work. 

Yes, we old maids have leisure to look 
after other people; and sometimes I think, 
though I’m not sure about that, that a lonely 
heart has more room in it for God than a full 
one. At any rate, you love me, and I’m going 
away to feast upon that.” 

“ What little crumbs are a feast to some 
people,” thought Agnes, when she was again 
alone. “ Who would have believed that 
Grace Leigh, beloved and admired as- she is 
by old and young, could be so humble as to 
stoop to pick one from my hand ! ” 

She felt rested now, and the consciousness 


Such as I Have. 


1 16 

that just by being loving she had made the 
burden of life a little lighter for her cousin, 
made her own easier to bear. Still, when she 
joined the family in the evening, she felt dis- 
posed to the silence and moodiness that is apt 
to possess those who are suffering either 
mentally or physically. When asked about 
her cousin’s visit, she answered, at first, in 
monosyllables, and as if annoyed at having her 
sanctuary invaded. But was this the way to 
give pleasure ? she asked herself. The thought 
roused her, and she repeated all the incidents 
of the visit that could possibly interest the 
family circle. It is said that words make us 
ten enemies where deeds do one.” Is it not 
equally true that words, rather than deeds, win 
friends for us? Are not kind, affectionate 
words the coin with which we buy just such 
words ? 

One might go on painting these homely, 
every-day scenes indefinitely. But enough has 
been done to give a timely hint to some of 
the lowly ones in our homes, who, feeling 
themselves of little worth there, have never 
tried to exercise the gift possessed by every 


Such as I Have. 


117 


human being, however obscure. We live in 
a strange, eventful world, and at every turn 
meet, even when we know it not, with hearts 
that are starving for the loving word we might 
speak, aching with a pain our sympathy could 
alleviate, lonely with a loneliness we could 
dispel. Who has not seen, in woodland ram- 
bles, the huge, unsightly fragment of rock 
made beautiful to the eye by the ready grace 
with which Nature trails over it delicate vines 
and springs forth from its crevices in charming 
ferns and tender blossoms, till its rugged form 
forever loses its sharp outlines ? 

And is it not worth while to possess this fairy- 
like hand ? May not those who find them- 
selves obscure and uselecs, and sigh for a vo- 
cation, find this one of the sweetest, though 
one of the simplest, on earth ? 

At any rate, Agnes Emmet has made it 
hers, and her heart, in ministering in lowly 
ways to others, has found what it was not 
seeking for itself : the fountain of youth, of 
rest, and of peace ; for if it is a sacred duty ” 
to give pleasure, what shall be said of the 
sacred pleasure of giving it ? 



HOMEWARD BOUND. 



HE good steamer Aurora was making 


her homeward trip across the Atlantic, 
and her passengers were preparing to set foot 
once more on their native soil. The voyage 
had been prosperous. There had been no 
rough winds, and but little sickness ; agreeable 
acquaintances, that promised to become life- 
long friendships, had been formed ; and during 
the few hours now to be spent together, every- 
body was bent on showing his best side. If 
there is test of character in place and circum- 
stances, it is a sea-voyage. The real self, 
the mean and paltry, or the benevolent and 
the noble, is forced to declare itself. And 
those who had persistently looked out through 
the voyage for Number One, who had been 
taciturn, and moody and unlovely, now, in- 


(119) 


120 


Homeward Bound. 


spired with the prospect of relief from the 
monotony of the past two weeks, were eager 
to retrieve their characters as speedily as pos- 
sible. Children who had been treated as 
cumberers of the ship, if not of the earth, 
were now indulged with lavish greetings. 
Those who had looked daggers at each other 
across the table, where two palates coveted the 
same dish, now bowed and smiled, and sud- 
denly grew well-bred. People are thrown to- 
gether at sea in somewhat of the free-and-easy 
way that makes picnics so unreserved and so 
significant in their results ; and if Mr. Long 
did learn to despise Mr. Short, he also learned 
to think Miss Medium Height the most charm- 
ing maiden he had ever beheld ; while that 
young lady was fain to become the adored of 
the contemned youth, according to the almost 
universal law of cross-purposes. And while 
there was no plan laid to that effect, cliques 
were formed and adhered to as if this voyage 
of two weeks was to be the veritable voyage 
of life. 

How depressing it is,” remarked one young 


Homeward Bound, 


I2I 


lady, “ to meet with invalids when one is trav- 
eling for pleasure ! We have been fairly 
haunted by that Mr. Grey and his mother. 
We met them first at Nice, and he looked at 
death’s door then. I can not imagine what 
kept him alive. Then he turned up at Flor- 
ence ; and when we got to Rome, there he 
was again. And I declare, when I came on 
board the steamer, last week, and saw him 
promenading the deck with that pinched, 
hungry look on his face, I thought I should 
give up ! ” 

“We met him, too,” was the reply. “ But 
I shouldn’t speak of him so much as looking 
pinched and hungry, as resigned and patient. 
Sick people do get that look. It seems to 
grow on them ; it’s a kind of a graft, I im- 
agine ; for, of course, it isn’t natural to people 
to be patient.” 

“ How the sea-air does take out one’s 
crimps ! ” cried the first speaker. Miss Welford, 
whom it is time to introduce. “ I shall look 
like a fright when I land. How do you man- 
age yours? ” 


122 


Homeward Bound. 


It manages itself. Nature keeps me 
crimped both in season and out of season. I 
happen to be in the fashion just now, but next 
news I shall be weeping for the straight locks of 
an Indian maiden. Let’s have a game of cards.” 

Well. It will be a cheering spectacle for 
those Greys. They’re such narrow, bigoted 
people ! A few evenings ago mamma asked 
them, out of mere good-nature, to join us in 
a game, and they had the effrontery to de- 
cline, on the ground that they never played 
cards. Of course, it was nothing less than a 
reproof to us ; and mamma resented it accord- 
ingly.” 

“ I don’t see that it was a reproof.” 

^‘Now, Edith Lemoine, how just like you 
that is ! Whatever one says, you always take 
opposite ground. If I should say that Mrs. 
Grey is not a fussy old woman, you would 
declare that she is.” 

Miss Lemoine smiled. 

“ Considering the difference in our tastes, 
and that you and I are both strong-minded 
girls—’ 


Homeward Bound, 


123 

Speak for yourself. I’ll not own to being 
strong-minded.” 

“ Only to being a little self-willed,” said her 
mother, looking as if she found that quality a 
wondrous grace. I don’t care if I join you 
girls in your game. I’ve got rid of a couple 
of hours over a stupid novel, and I believe 
I’ve slept off a couple more. How that ever- 
lasting Mr. Grey does cough ! I really think 
people so far gone as he should stay at home, 
and not shock one’s sensibilities by going 
round looking like spectres.” 

I pity his poor mother,” said Miss Lemoine. 
‘‘ He is her only son and all she has left. I 
suppose you have heard his romantic story ? ” 

“ As to that, we all have our romantic 
stories.” 

“ But we don’t all go into consumptions 
over them. And this is really a very interest- 
ing romance, at least, what I know of it. The 
girl he loved died five years ago, but he has 
been faithful to her memory ever since, and 
now he’s dying, poor fellow.” 

‘‘ It is a very weak-minded thing to do,” de- 


124 


Homeward Bound, 


dared Mrs. Welford, yawning, and looking at 
her watch. “ He ought to have found another 
girl, and got married and settled down. Really, 
my dear, you seem vastly interested in him ! 
For my part. I’ve no sympathy with your 
lackadaisical, broken-hearted people. And as 
to these Greys, they’re a pair of prigs. You 
should have seen the air with which they de- 
clined to play a harmless game of- cards ! ” 

“Well,” said Miss Lemoine, “I don’t care 
what you call them, but I like them. The 
care she takes of him ! The love she pours 
out, yes, just pours out on him ! And his re- 
spect and love and gratitude for her are just 
as beautiful. It makes me wish I had a 
mother.” 

“ Rather an ungrateful speech, after all I’ve 
done for you on the voyage ! ” said Mrs. Wel- 
ford, coldly. 

“ So it was, and I was sorry the moment I 
had uttered it ! ” was the frank reply. “ You 
have been very kind and I have been very un- 
grateful. But I suppose we all have our 
moods. And sometimes I am in the mood to 


Homeward Bound. 


125 


be made a little girl of in the way Mrs. Grey 
makes a boy out of her six-foot-high son. It 
is very silly in me.” 

Mrs. Welford and her daughter exchanged 
glances, which were lost on Miss Lemoine : 
for at this moment there was a little bustle 
near them. Mr. Grey had fainted and lay in 
his mother’s arms like one dead. 

“ Come away, girls,” said Mrs. Welford, ris- 
ing. “ I really believe we shall have a burial 
at sea ; and they say it’s an awful scene.” 

But one of the girls was already out of 
hearing. 

“ How can I help you ? What shall I do 
for you ? ” whispered Miss Lemoine to the 
agitated mother. 

Oh, if you’ll step to my state-room and 
bring me the little flask and glass you’ll see 
there. Henry, darling, you haven’t gone 
and left your mother without saying good- 
bye?” 

She spoke tenderly, but not passionately. 
Miss Lemoine marveled at the composed 
tone, and kept on marveling at the quietness 


126 


Homeward Bound. 


and self-control with which the exhausted 
young man was soon brought back to life. 

“ I thought Vd got my furlough and was 
off/’ he said, with a smile, as the color, what 
little he had, poor boy, began to return. 

“ I almost hoped you had, dear child.” As 
she spoke, her eyes and those of Miss Lemoine 
met, and she read in those of the young lady 
a sort of horror and disgust. 

** It will be comparatively easy to suffer 
when I suffer alone,” she said, in reply to this 
look. “ Unless you have been very ill your- 
self, you can form no conception of what my 
dear son is undergoing. Such exhaustion is 
harder to bear than pain. It is like death ; 
but it is not that blessed messenger. There is 
the distress, but not the relief.” 

Miss Lemoine was silent. The thought of 
death was most repugnant to her ; she could 
not think of him as a “ blessed messenger.” 
Yet she lingered near the Greys with the true 
womanly sympathy that is the badge of most 
of her sex, and with a vague desire to show 
what she felt. And as she stood and watched 


Homeward Bound, 


127 


the mother’s hand caress the dying son, a thrill 
of pain shot through her heart as she reflected 
that no maternal caress had ever been hers ; 
that her life had been won through the death 
of a girl not older, not more ready to die, than 
herself. For outwardly worldly as she was, 
she had a heart with a sanctuary of its own ; 
if neither priest or sermon had consecrated it, 
that was not quite her fault. 

‘^You will soon be at home,” she said, at 
last ; and once there, Mr. Grey will be free 
from the discomforts incident to traveling.” 
The young man smiled and said softly, and 
rather to himself than to her, “Yes, at home ! ” 
Mrs. Grey caught his meaning, though the 
girl did not. She knew that their homes were 
to lie in different lands — hers amid dust and 
heat and cross-purposes ; his amid peace and 
rest in the Lord. 

“ Upon my word, you are the strangest girl 
I ever saw ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Welford, when 
she next met Miss Lemoine. “ How could 
you hang over that young Mr. Grey so ? ” 

“ I pitied him with all my heart,” she re- 


128 


Homeward Bound, 


plied. I don’t suppose there’s the least 
chance of his ever getting well ; and he’s so 
young ! And his mother will be left entirely 
alone. And to be alone is so lonely ! ” 

And as if the utterances of these plaintive 
words had suddenly revealed to her the empti- 
ness and the solitude of her own heart, the 
girl crept away to her state-room, threw her- 
self upon her bed, and wet her pillow with 
her tears. What is the matter with me ? ” 
she moaned ; I am young, and strong, and 
well ; I can have everything I want ; and yet 
here I am, crying my life out.” And then 
there flashed through her mind a few words 
she had met with in a story that day. Only 
God can satisfy a woman ; ” and she stopped 
crying to ask herself if this could be true, and 
if here was the explanation of the insatiable 
hunger of her heart. But, as she had said, 
she was young and strong, and so she soon 
fell asleep, and slept on, soundly, till mid- 
night. Then she was awakened by the sound 
of many feet hurrying about on deck, and of — 
confused cries and shouts. She started up in 


Homeward Bound. 


129 


great bewilderment, and ran out into the 
saloon and into a scene of the wildest dismay. 
Women and children were running about, or 
were clinging to each other in hopeless, tear- 
ful, pallid groups. Everybody’s real character 
was coming out ; people were pushing past 
each other and getting in each other’s way, 
each disposed, apparently, to sacrifice all the 
lives on board, if that were necessary, in order 
to secure personal safety. What shall /do ? 
What will become of me ? ” seemed the thought 
of each. ^ 

Oh, what is the matter ? ” cried the trem- 
bling girl again and again, before she could get 
the appalling reply : 

■ We are on fire ! ” 

At last she found the Welfords, under whose 
care she was returning home. 

Oh, here you are ! ” cried Mrs. Welford ; 

I had quite forgotten you. Only to think 
of all our lovely Paris dresses being burned 
up ! Mr. Welford says we may have to take 
to the boats, and that we can’t carry our 
trunks with us. And there are Mr. Johnson 
9 


30 


Homeward Bound. 


and those Greys going about talking to people 
as if the judgment day had come ! 

Miss Lemoine at this moment caught sight 
of Henry Grey. His pale face was illumined 
with a celestial glow, as he spoke to the group 
about him of the dangers and the hopes of 
the morqent— danger to the body, hope for 
the soul. 

*‘To those of us who love the Lord Jesus 
it is only getting home, to be with Him a lit- 
tle sooner than we had expected,” he said ; 

and we shall find that He knew we were 
coming, and had rpade every preparation for 
us.” 

“ But oh, Mr. Grey,” said one, what of us 
who don’t love Hini ? What will become of 
us?” 

For answer he fell upon his knees, and those 
within reach of his voice fell upon theirs. 
And more than one soul, borne upon the 
strong wings of his faith, gave itself away to 
God in those awful moments when the help 
of man was vain. 

Edith Lemoine’s was one. Unconsciously 


Homeward Bound, 


131 

to her the Holy Spirit had been preparing her 
for this tragical scene, and now, when there 
seemed but a step between her and death, the 
heavens were opened — she saw within the veil. 
And they who have thus seen God, can not 
describe what they have seen. Finite words 
can not define the infinite. 

Meanwhile, in spite of reassuring messages 
from the captain to the contrary, the fire went 
raging on, and the danger was rapidly becom- 
ing more imminent. One boat-load of terri- 
fied human beings had already set forth, and 
an eager crowd was contending for the second. 
Mr. Welford had seen his wife and daughter 
safely off, and now came hurriedly to Miss Le- 
moine. 

There is no time to lose,” he said ; come 
this instant ! ” 

She looked at Mr. and Mrs. Grey. Ex- 
hausted by their sympathy for others rather 
than by terror for themselves, they sat side 
by side, hand clasped in hand, silently praying 
for those who were too bewildered to do more 
than weep and lament. 


132 


Homeward Bound. 


“Are you going with me, Mr. Welford ? ’* 
she asked. 

“ No. Men will not be permitted to leave 
the ship till all the women and children are 
off. Come, this instant ! ” Then, seeing Mrs. 
Grey with her helpless boy at her side, he 
added : 

“ I will see you to the boat, also, madam.” 

“ I can not leave my son,” was the reply. 

“ Surely no one would refuse Mr. Grey a 
place in the boat, ill as he is,” said Miss 
Lemoine. 

“ He could not bear the exposure of an 
open boat this cold night,” said Mrs. Grey. 
“ Do not think of us, dear young lady. We 
are safe in God’s hands ; and if we go home, 
it will be together. And I have made myself 
so miserable, at times, in looking forward to 
our separation ! I never thought God would 
be so merciful ! — would give me such a joy ! ” 

“ I insist, ladies, on your both taking to the 
boat ! ” said Mr. Welford, decidedly. “ It is 
my duty to act for you, since your wills are 
paralyzed.’' 


Homeward Bound. 


133 


“He is right, mother,” said Henry; “and 
if you will not go without me, I will go too.” 

“ Oh, my boy, let us die together ! ” 

“ We have no right to insist on dying. 
Think, mother, our lives belong to God, not 
to ourselves. And you may yet do for Him 
some of the work I have so longed to do.” 

With a groah, the elder yielded to the de- 
cision of the younger, and in a few moments 
the sick man and the two ladies were lowered 
into one of the last boats. 

The faint dawn of day was just beginning 
to illumine the sky, and to make the picture 
of the burning steamer a little less ghastly. 
“ If the sun rises, Henry may survive this 
day,” was the fond thought of the mother, as 
she enveloped his emaciated figure in shawls 
and blankets eagerly proffered her by those 
who needed them less. He lay now half asleep 
from exhaustion, the image of death ; and, 
after a time, Mrs. Grey slept, too, as persons of 
a certain temperament do after a great mental 
strain. Miss Lemoine sat and alternately 
watched them and the burning steamer, which 


134 


Homeward Bound, 


they were leaving behind them. At last the 
young man aroused and looked anxiously 
about him, and his eyes met the sad ones fixed 
upon him. 

“ I am the only son of my mother, and she 
is a widow,” he whispered. “ Is it presuming 
too much if I say that when I am gone, a 
hopeful, happy young girl like yourself might 
sometimes cheer a lonely hour? ” 

Hopeful ! Happy ! ” 

Did these delicious words describe her? 
Prophetically she felt that they did. Even 
amid the horrors of those awful hours, and in 
the presence of death — for death was coming 
on apace — she knew that something had 
come to her that was to make her happy for- 
ever ! 

She was not a common girl, and so she did 
what few girls would have done. She knelt 
down and took his cold hand in both hers. 

“ I have neither father or mother,” she said. 
“ I am my own mistress. If your mother and 
I can learn to love each other, and I think we 
can, I will be a daughter to her after you are 


Hc 7 neward Bound, 135 

gone. And, perhaps, before you go, you ought 
to know that you have opened golden gates 
for me, and given me a glimpse of heaven. I 
am going to live for that world now ; not for 
this.” 

He did not reply, even by a smile ; he only 
looked up straight into her eyes till he met 
and recognized the soul there. 

Nor did she shrink from the scrutiny, for 
death was yet coming on apace, and precious, 
weighty moments were speeding away. 

“ I am satisfied ; you have a soul ; my 
mother will not be left alone,” he said, at 
last. 

Mrs. Grey awoke, and started up eagerly to 
look at her son. Her troubled face turned to 
the sky, but it was cold and leaden and sun- 
less. He shivered beneath his wrappings, and 
she shivered in sympathy. 

“Can’t you give me to God, mother?” he 
said, faintly. “ He is going to give you Him- 
self, in my place, and something strong and 
sweet and human besides.” 

“ Will you have me fora daughter, mother ? ” 


136 


Homeward Bound, 


asked Edith, using the sacred word for the 
first time. 

They clasped hands in silence, and when 
they next looked at the sky, if the sun did 
not shine there, it was bright where the tired 
traveler disappeared from their sight, and 
went into the celestial city, to go no more out. 

Aurora^2s burned to the water’s edge, 
but most of her passengers were rescued by 
another boat. 

The hazardous and romantic compact en- 
tered into by Edith Lemoine, would probably 
have come to an unhappy ending under ordi- 
nary circumstances. But the event proved 
that a divine, unerring hand had ordained the 
meeting, and that the orphan girl was to find a 
mother, the bereaved mother a devoted child, 
in an open boat upon an open sea. A friend- 
ship that was to be life-long, had its birth on 
the most fickle element, and it was a blessed 
thing for both, that, though they had to cross 
the Atlantic Ocean in order to meet, two kin- 
dred, congenial souls at last recognized each 
other. Life is all Providence, not accident. 


TAKING FOR GRANTED. 


was so ungentlemanly ! ” 

‘‘And so unkind ! 

“ And she bore it so sweetly ! 

These, and a score of similar remarks, pro- 
ceeded from a party of young girls returning 
home from an afternoon sewing-circle, and the 
object of their displeasure was the Rev. Jere- 
miah Watkins, who had been making an ad- 
dress to them on the subject of Foreign Mis- 
sions. At every tea-table they represented he 
was made the subject of animadversion, and 
in most cases the result was — 

“You don’t say so ! ” 

“ I couldn’t have believed it ! ” 

“ It is inexcusable ! ” and the like. 

But there was one exception to the rule. 

“ Only to think, mother,” cried Isabella May, 
the instant the family had gathered around 

(137) 


138 Taking for Granted, 

the tea-table, Miss Raymond told Mr. Wat- 
kins at the sewing-circle that we had agreed 
at her request, to call it the ‘ Watkins Society,’ 
in his honor, and he replied, *■ So I heard, but 
supposed you said it in your coarse way ! ’ 
Did you ever hear of such an outrageous 
speech ? ” 

Mr. Watkins is incapable of such rude- 
ness,” was the reply. 

Why, mother, half a dozen of us heard 
it.” 

You misunderstood him. I am as positive 
that he never said^t as that I did not say it 
myself.” 

But I am positive that he did. We all 
heard it, and talked of nothing else all the 
way home.” 

My dear, you are doing him a great injus- 
tice. How often I have warned you against 
trusting to first impressions. I am sure that 
when Mr. Watkins hears this absurd story he 
will be able to explain it. Come, let us have 
no more of this. I am ashamed of you for re- 
peating such nonsense.” 


Taking for Granted. 


139 


Isabella would gladly have defended herself 
by many vehement protestations, but she 
dared not run the risk of displeasing her par- 
ents, warmly attached as they were to the 
young missionary, who was about to leave 
home and friends for a foreign field. 

That very evening he called, and as he had 
been accused in the presence of the whole 
family, Mrs. May resolved to give him as pub- 
lic an opportunity to defend himself. In as 
few words as possible she told him the story, 
adding — 

“And now for your ex^^nation to these 
foolish girls, for I know you*^can make one.” 

“ I happen to remember my reply. I felt a 
little embarrassed at the honor done me by 
the young ladies, and said, ^ So I heard. Miss 
Raymond, but supposed you only said it in 
your jocose way.’ ” 

Poor Isabella May ! The blood rose to her 
forehead, and she hurried from the room, the 
picture of shame. 

“ I hope this lesson will last forever ! ” 
thought she. “ What fools we have made of 


140 Taking for Granted, 

ourselves. I will never be positive about any- 
thing again as long as I live ! ” 

The resolution lasted till the next day, when 
she thought it her duty to go through a cer- 
tain portion of the church, soliciting aid for a 
very destitute family. 

Everybody gave me something but Mrs. 
Howard,” said she ; “ and she wouldn’t give 
me a cent, the stingy old thing ! ” 

Have you any other proof that she is 
‘ stingy ? ’ ” inquired her mother. 

“ What other proof do I want ? There she 
sits in her nicely-furnished parlor, beautifully 
dressed, and wouldn’t give me a red cent. 
How can people be so mean ? ” 

Mrs. May rose without replying to this 
speech, and unlocking her desk, took from it 
several account books. 

‘ The stingy old thing ’ subscribed liberally 
to our Ladies’ Tract Society, at all events,” 
she said, handing the book to Isabella. “And 
I am treasurer of our Home Mission Society 
also ; see, she gave more last year than any 
half dozen put together.” 


Taking for Granted. 141 

But that is no reason why she should re- 
fuse to give a few cents to a poor, starving 
family,'’ said Isabella. 

“You are not stating things fairly. ‘A few 
cents ’ would have been received by you with 
indignation. And what right have we to dic- 
tate to her how she shall spend her money, or 
when ? ” 

“ I have no doubt,” returned Isabella, de- 
termined not to be convinced, “that she is 
one of the sort who subscribe largely when it 
will make a show, and she can get you, and 
Mrs. Wentworth, and Mrs. Ransom, and Mrs. 
Terry to admire her for it ; and when a young 
girl, whose opinion she does not value, calls 
upon her, she draws her purse-strings together 
and tells her to go about her business. I am 
so disappointed ! I told poor Mrs. Murphy 
that I had no doubt I could raise a hundred 
dollars for her, and Fve only got fifty. I 
thought Mrs. Howard would give fifty, at 
least.” 

My dear, do you know of any one whom 
you would like to have decree just what por- 


142 


Taking for Granted, 


tion of your money you shall spend in char- 
ity, and how ? ” 

That is very different.” 

“ Come now, we are just filling a box for the 
family of a Western missionary, most worthy, 
yet destitute people ; I should like that gray 
suit of yours for one of the girls ; she is ex- 
actly your size.” 

My pretty gray suit ? Why, mother ! 
And I have just given Mrs. Murphy's oldest 
girl my brown suit ! 

How can you sit in this ‘ nicely-furnished 
parlor, beautifully dressed,’ and refuse me one 
suit of your half dozen ? ” 

“ I think that you are unreasonable, mother* 
I am sure I am conscientious about giving. I 
lay aside one-tenth of my allowance for char- 
itable purposes, and that’s all the Bible re- 
quires.” 

‘^And suppose Mrs. Howard does the same? 
Have we any right to require more of her than 
of ourselves?” 

Perhaps not. But still, I do think she 
might have given me something.” 


Taking for Granted, 143 

Then I have an equal right to say I do 
think you might give me that gray suit/' 
Isabella smiled, but looked a little foolish. 
A few hours later she burst into her mother’s 
room with a — 

Well, I am about the biggest fool I ever 
saw ! I went to carry the fifty dollars to Mrs. 
Murphy, and made a long string of accusations 
against Mrs. Howard.” 

“ I hope you did not mention her name ? ” 
“ Well, I did not intend to do that, but in 
the midst of my tirade, Mrs. Murphy inter- 
rupted me to ask of whom I was speaking, 
and when I told her she began to cry. 

“ ‘ Oh, Miss Isabella,’ she said, ‘ don’t breathe 
a word against that blessed lady ! It’s me and 
mine she has saved from starvation this many 
a year. It’s all along of the drink that she 
refuses to give us money. If my poor part- 
ner would only leave off his bad ways we 
should live in peace and plenty. But when 
he was her coachman he was that under the 
power of the liquor that he upset her carriage, 
and the horses ran a long way and got hurted 


144 


Taking for Granted, 


so they had to be killed ; and don’t you mind, 
Miss, how her beautiful boy was thrown out 
and made into a poor cripple ? ’ 

“ I said it must have happened when I was 
a little girl, for I had never heard of it. But 
oh, mother, how ashamed I feel ! What shall 
I do to cure myself of this habit of forming 
hasty and uncharitable opinions? Not a day 
passes that I do not get into hot water in con- 
sequence. Why, according to Mrs. Murphy, 
Mrs. Howard has been like an angel of mercy 
to her. She will not give them money be- 
cause ‘ my poor partner ’ gets it and drinks it 
up ; but she pays their rent, and clothes them, 
and never gets out of patience with them. I 
declare I never heard of such a lovely charac- 
ter. The next time you call there I wish 
you’d take me. I mean to try to become ex- 
actly like her.” 

“ Poor child, always in extremes,” replied 
Mrs. May. There is only one Being whom 
it is worth your while to be ‘ exactly like.’ 
But you can not imitate Him too closely.” 

“ No, I can not,” thought Isabella, as she 


Taking for Granted. 145 

retired to her own room. If I were more 
like Him I should not be so hasty and so un- 
charitable. But I have had a good lesson to- 
day, and one I shall not forget very soon.” 

She was a warm-hearted, generous girl, and 
when she found herself guilty of injustice to 
those about her, she felt deeply pained and 
grieved. And as she desired to surmount her 
natural faults and foibles, she sincerely prayed 
for Divine aid, while yet proposing, if one 
may use such an expression without irrever- 
ence, to form a sort of partnership between 
herself and God. She was to do a great deal 
by prayers and tears and efforts, and He was 
to do the rest. She had yet to learn the hu- 
miliating, but salutary truth that her strength 
was perfect weakness, and that the soul that 
would be purified and sanctified must cast it- 
self wholly upon Christ. So she went on, 
hating her easily besetting sins, but continually 
following them, thereby causing pain and 
trouble to herself and some of her dearest 
friends. 

Among the latter, she prized' most highly a 


10 


146 Taking for Granted. 

former scnool-mate, Clara Bradshaw, and her 
brother Fred. Clara was quite her opposite 
in character; she could reason before she 
judged, could reflect before she spoke ; she 
had a large fund of good, common sense, and 
often kept Isabella from her headlong mis- 
takes. As to Fred, he was a genial, well- 
informed young man, whom Isabella admired 
and could have become fond of if he had 
given her a chance, but whether poverty or 
want of affection restrained him, he had never 
paid her any other attention than would be 
natural to pay his sister’s friend. Still, uncon- 
sciously to herself, Isabella had some secret, 
undefined hopes that if he ever reached a 
position that would enable him to marry, she 
should be his choice. Meanwhile, as he evi- 
dently preferred no one to herself, she felt at 
ease ; she had a pleasant home, which she 
was in no hurry to leave, and many spheres 
of happiness and usefulness lay open to her. 
He and Clara were orphans, and had a family 
of young brothers and sisters dependent upon 
them, and this required incessant industry in 


Taking for Granted. 


147 


both. But the scene suddenly changed. The 
death of an uncle put it into their power to 
alter their whole style of living. Fred need 
no longer drudge as boy’s tutor, a business he 
detested ; and Clara could now enjoy a little 
of the elegant leisure always familiar to Isa- 
bella. 

“ It is a great change for them,” said friends 
and lookers-on. “ It will be a wonder if their 
heads are not turned.” 

Indeed there was so much benevolent in- 
terest of this sort expressed, that Fred and 
Clara ought to have shown a vast amount of 
gratitude to almost everybody. 

Fora time Isabella rejoiced with her friends 
^nost warmly and truly. The thought that 
prosperity might change their relations to her- 
self did not cross her mind until the fact of 
change became evident. Clara, always quiet 
and undemonstrative, grew more and more so ; 
Fred gradually ceased visiting her, and she 
rarely met him in his own home. What could 
it mean ? She spent many and many a-^lole- 
ful hour in trying to fathom the mystery be- 


148 


Taking for Granted. 


fore she spoke of it to her mother, to whom 
she was in the habit of confiding everything 
she could reveal to any human being. But 
one day, as they sat together at work, she be- 
gan on this wise : 

‘‘ A line has been running in my head for 
several months — 

“ ‘ Sadder than separation, sadder than 
death, came change.’ 

“ Is it not true that to lose faith in friends 
is sadder than to be bereft of them ? If they 
are separated from you ocean-wide, they are 
still yours ; and if they die, you feel that God 
has done it and submit to His will. But when 
they grow cold toward you there is nothing 
to hope for, nothing to do.” < 

This could not occur save through the 
wdll of God, my dear child, and I see no rea- 
son for not referring the minor as well as the 
great events of life to Him. But do not let 
us lose faith in our friends too readily. Cir- 
cumstances may change while affections do not. 
Remofliber how prone you are to hasty judg- 
ments ! ” 


Taking for Granted. 


149 


“ There is no haste in this case/’ returned 
Isabella. “You have no idea what I have 
been going through ever since Clara and Fred 
came into possession of their uncle’s fortune. 
Fred never comes near me, and Clara has 
grown so cold and silent ! ” 

“Are you sure that there has been no change 
in yourself? ” 

“ There was none till I was chilled by their 
behavior. At present I feel none of the sweet 
confidence I used to have in their friendship, 
especially Clara’s. And, mother, there can be 
no harm in telling you, but it mortifies and 
even chafes me to see Clara, who for a little 
while dressed herself and the children as be- , 
came their new position, fall back into all her 
old economies. She has actually taken Will 
and Tom out of school, and is teaching them 
herself, as she used to do. I used to pity her 
when she was obliged to do this, but now — I 
hate to own it, but it is true — it revolts me to 
see such meanness in one I have loved so de- 
votedly. Oh, mother, nobody knows how I 
have loved her! And now I have lost my 


150 


Taking for Granted, 


ideal ; for if there is any one defect in a char- 
acter I can not forgive, it is meanness.” 

“ I will own that your statement surprises 
me,” said Mrs. May, after a time. ‘‘ But habit 
is second nature, you know, and Clara was 
born and brought up in a painful, narrow 
school. Perhaps she does not yet realize how 
large her fortune is. It is very large, your 
father says, and she can afford herself every 
reasonable indulgence. But do not throw 
away a friend you have loved so long for one 
fault. Remember that you are not faultless 
yourself, and that your defects are probably 
as repugnant to her as hers to you.” 

Isabella said no more. She felt that she 
knew more than she could make her mother 
see. The wound was deeper than a human 
hand could reach, and the alienation between 
herself and Clara became more and more de- 
cided. They kept up appearances, but that 
was all. The old, delightful past was gone, 
and with it some of Isabella’s youthful faith 
in those she loved. And, as time passed, she 
could not help pouring her grievances into 


Taking for Gra 7 ited, 15 1 

other ears ; this, that, and the other friend 
learned that Clara had been spoiled by her 
good fortune ; that her pretended affection for 
Isabella had been mere love of the gifts lav- 
ished on her in poverty ; that she was incredi- 
bly parsimonious ; yes, and there was no doubt 
she had prejudiced her brother against the 
warmest-hearted, most faithful friend she had 
ever possessed. People were only too willing 
to believe all this, and of course it came back 
to Clara’s ears greatly exaggerated. She was 
a proud girl, and suffered in silence, not offer- 
ing a word in self-defense. Two or three years 
passed on,, during which Isabella’s old love 
would have turned into contempt and aver- 
sion, but that she was a Christian girl, accus- 
tomed, with all her foibles, to pray for those 
who wounded, as she would for those who de- 
spitefully used and persecuted her. Then it 
began to be whispered about that Fred Brad- 
shaw was leading a dissipated, worthless life, 
wasting his own and his sister’s substance in 
riotous living. • 

Of course he would not care for me or ex- 


152 


Taking for Granted, 


pect me to care for him, if all this is true,’^ 
thought Isabella. But I must know it from 
Clara herself, not from mere public gossip.” 

Finding that she could no longer conceal 
the misdeeds of her erring brother, Clara con- 
fessed the economies she had practiced in 
order to shelter him from public scorn, how 
her heart had been slowly breaking under its 
disappointments and shame, and that so far 
from being rich and able to live at ease, she 
was now reduced to almost their original pov- 
erty. Isabella could not express her penitence 
and sorrow. 

“ How could you let me misjudge you so ? ” 
she cried. “ What is a friend good for, if not 
to weep with those who weep ? ” 

“ Fred was such a dear brother ! ” replied 
Clara. ‘‘And I had always hoped he might 
make you my sister. At first I would not be- 
tray him to you, hoping that after the first 
pressure of temptation was over, he might, 
like the prodigal son, come to himself. But 
the consciousness that I was keeping from 
you a secret of such importance made me, no 


Taking for Granted, 


153 


doubt, appear constrained and unlike myself. 
Then I was suffering such wearing heart-aches 
and suspense that I could not seem bright and 
loving as happy people can. And I knew that, 
not understanding economies, you would as- 
sume that they sprang from a narrow mind, a 
thing your generous soul loathes. People 
have shaken their heads and begged me not to 
let mine be turned by my good fortune, when 
I have been going about with a heart like lead. 
And other girls have talked by the hour about 
some article their dressmaker had cut wrong, 
while 1 was writhing under real sorrow. Yes, 
and not a few have run on about the petty 
foibles of their servants when I was straining 
every nerve, listening for Fred's step, and 
wondering with what evil company he was 
then occupied.’- 

“ I wonder you did not lose your senses.” 

I ani not one of that sort. I have need 
of them all. Fred has squandered not only 
most of our money, but has ruined his health 
and lost his reputation. No one would re- 
ceive him into their house.” 


154 


Taking for Granted. 


“And all this time I have been abusing you, 
you poor child ! ” cried Isabella, once more 
bursting into tears. “ Well, I can make no 
promises for the future after the failures of the 
past. I can only hope that the deep-seated, 
Gospel humility I have so long needed, will 
spring up out of all we both have suffered, 
and that, through God’s blessing, this is the 
last time I shall take anything for granted 
that touches a human character unfavorably. 
If you can feel any respect or affection for 
me, I shall be only too grateful for it, and I 
know now that I never lost mine for you ; I 
prayed for you every day, and often and often 
said to myself — In Heaven all coldness will 
have passed away ; we shall see eye to eye, 
and know as we are known.” 

It is needless to add that the reconciliation 
between the friends was complete, and that 
Isabella had, at last, learned a lesson whose 
impressions nothing could efface. Alas, that 
it should be so, but we are fallen, erring beings 
and have to he taught, like refractory chib 
dren, everything under the rod. 


WHY SATAN TREMBLES. 


T T chanced, upon a time, that two evil spir- 
its, subordinates of the Prince of Dark- 
ness, yet high in rank and in intelligence, were 
holding converse together concerning the in- 
terests of his kingdom. 

Notwithstanding the success of many of 
his bold designs,” said one, “ some secret, in- 
vincible obstacle yet bars his progress. While 
it may be said, with truth, that the soul of 
man belongs to us, our right to its possession 
is disputed. Our king himself has hours of 
despondency.” 

“ I have often thought,” was the reply, of 
visiting the abodes of men, to learn, if possi- 
ble, what secret powers are in league against 
us. I would fain know the number and the 
force of the enemy, and whether they that be 
for us are more than they that be against us. 

( 155 ) 


156 Why Satan Trembles. 

What think you ? Shall we volunteer to en- 
ter on such an expedition together?” 

Nothing could give me more delight. Let 
us hasten to the king and lay our project be- 
fore him.” 

The prince received his faithful servants 
graciously, and after consenting to the pro- 
posed journey, gave them their instructions on 
this wise : 

On reaching the abodes of men, you will 
at first see much to encourage you. You 
will find throughout the world an almost 
ceaseless activity in my service. Day and 
night they work the works of darkness in the 
walks of business and pleasure ; at home and 
abroad, on land and on sea. Everywhere the 
sound of clamor and contention will make 
music in your ears. Everywhere the sight of 
oppression, rapine, cruelty, and death will in- 
spire you with confidence. But there is scat- 
tered up and down among them, a large class 
who profess and call themselves Christians. 
They are sworn enemies. They openly de- 
nounce me and mine. They have their ban- 


Why Satan Trembles, 157 

ner and their watchword. They send their 
emissaries to the remotest ends of the earth, 
and to the very islands of the sea. The secret 
of their power is hidden from mine eyes. Yet, 
alas ! I have only too lively suspicions as to 
its source. How gladly would I become om- 
niscient, and so penetrate to the depths of 
every human heart ! I charge you to search 
this matter to its foundation. Do not be mis- 
led by appearances. As they mingle among 
their fellow-men, these enemies of ours do not 
always show their colors. They eat, they 
drink, they marry and are given in marriage 
like those about them. They are to be seen 
in all the ranks and relations of life, with no 
singularities that necessarily distinguish them 
from their fellows. You must follow their 
every footstep, invade their strictest privacy, 
in order to learn their watchword and obtain 
the key to their inmost lives. A man is never 
so much himself as when alone. See him, 
then, alone. And when he is in the crowd, 
tempt him ; and when he is iathe desert, fol- 
low and tempt him still. He can not harm 
you, but you may ruin him.” 


158 


W/tj^ Satan Trembles, 


The spies listened and obeyed. They gained 
the upper world and mingled with its inhabit- 
ants. Sometimes they appeared in human 
guise, and offered an alluring, dangerous friend- 
ship. Sometimes they appeared angels of 
light. But it was more in accordance with 
their character as fiends to remain most of the 
time invisible, launching the unseen darts, 
whispering the envenomed word. It was their 
delight to lie in ambush behind some appar- 
ently innocent pursuit or pleasure, and sud- 
denly rush thence upon an unsuspecting vic- 
tim. But at first the world struck them as 
almost wholly the kingdom of their king. 
For here little children were already criminals : 
there even women were selling themselves un- 
to sin.> The whole earth groaned and travailed 
together in a common anguish that had sin 
and Satan for its base. Men met on battle- 
fields to hew each other down like blocks of 
wood. Reckless and lawless mobs rushed 
through the streets, laying waste the homes 
of widows and orphans. Hatred and lust, 
sickness and sorrow, and death held triumph- 


W/ij/ Satan Trembles. 


159 


ant reign all over the earth. In green valleys 
and by the side of musical brooks, and in the 
presence of God’s great mountains, and in 
quiet rural homes, they saw sights and heard 
sounds that well-nigh froze even their ardent, 
hellish blood. And in populous cities these 
sights were but multiplied a thousand-fold, 
and these sounds were re-echoed from a thou- 
sand souls. The less experienced of the two 
spies broke forth into exultant cries : 

‘‘ I see triumph written on every grain of 
sand upon these shores, on every blade of 
grass, on every stone that paves their streets. 
Man works for and with us ; body, soul, and 
spirit.” 

As he spoke, a troop of children passed joy- 
ously along. It was a little army with ban- 
ners. They gathered into a spacious church, 
and its dim, religious light fell upon a thou- 
sand forms and hallowed a thousand faces, 
while their voices broke forth in triumphant 
song. 

“ Our enemies begin to train their light in- 
fantry betimes,” said the elder spy, dryly. 


i6o Why Satan Trembles, 

How will they march and fight, think you, 
when they become veterans in the service? 
Come away ; this scene disgusts me.” 

They crept away abashed, they knew not 
why, and flew over land and sea only to find 
men leagued together in the cause of their 
God. Christian mothers taught their little 
ones the name of Jesus. Multitudes thronged 
to temples built for His worship, and did Him 
honor. They went forth, two and two, to 
carry His praise to the ends of the earth. 
They formed themselves into bands and 
fought their way through the very camp of 
the enemy. They poured out their money 
like water, and counted not their lives dear 
unto them, for their watchword was, ‘‘ Faith- 
ful unto death.” 

You will observe,” said the elder confeder- 
ate, “ that the power of these saints is im- 
mense. Their organizations are well-nigh 
perfect. They have their Sunday-schools, their 
churches, their innumerable societies, all over 
the globe.” 

‘‘ But is not this equally true of us ? And 


Why Satan Trembles. i6i 

have we not lurking in every human soul, a 
traitor ready at almost any moment to arise and 
bid us welcome ? I am disturbed by what I see, 
but not disheartened. These men are not all 
of one mind. They waste time and strength 
in useless discussion. They hinder their suc- 
cess by their pride and by their conceit. There 
is not one among them who has not within 
him the germ of close likeness to our prince. 
Like him, they may fall off from their allegi- 
ance and become finally his.” 

They may, but it will require all his and 
all our craft and vigilance to accomplish that 
end. For know that I have a clue to the ob- 
stacle hinted at by our prince. It transcends 
in its gravity and importance all we have hith- 
erto seen. Remember that we have yet to 
penetrate where mortal footsteps may not 
venture. We are on the threshold of such a 
scene ; let us give it a moment.” 

They enter a room, and saw a little child 
kneeling and praying : 

“Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me ! 

Bless Thy little lamb to-night.” 


1 62 Why Satan Trembles, 

Shrouded by the shades of evening, but visi- 
ble to the eyes of the spirits of Ovil, there 
stood the Man, Christ Jesus. His hand was 
on the head of the child. He was hearing and 
answering the infantine petition. 

The younger spy shrugged his shoulders and 
smiled ; but no answering smile responded to 
his. 

Is the prattle of babes to dethrone our 
king?” he asked, derisively. 

“ Nay, but conie hither,” was the reply. 

They stole to another room. A young girl 
knelt with clasped hands ; her face, beaming 
with celestial peace, was raised to heaven, and 
her lips moved in prayer. Her experiences of 
life had been brief and well-nigh painless. 
She had grown up in a happy home, shielded 
from temptation and guarded from harm. 
The depths of her soul had not yet been stir- 
red by sorrow or by passion. Yet, as some 
flowers turn to the sun, so this soul turned 
and opened itself to the Sun of Righteous- 
ness ; morning and night found her looking 
upward in adoration and in prayer. Uncon- 


Why Satan Trembles, 163 

sciously, she was becoming rooted and 
grounded in love by each act of devotion, and 
gaining strength for future conflict and dis- 
may. The words she uttered were few and 
simple, but Jesus Himself waited to listen to 
and accept them. 

“ I should not be appalled by such a sight 
as this,” said the elder spy ; but^ the scenes 
I am now calling you to witness are habitual, 
not occasional. That little child makes an 
altar of its mother’s knee every morning and 
every evening. This young girl has sprung 
from such a childhood. Her habits are as 
fixed as the everlasting hills. And the habits 
of the Being she adores are equally as inflexi- 
ble. She, an obscure, timid girl, has power 
to summon her King from His throne, and He 
listens with as much sympathy to her story as 
to that of any potentate on earth.” 

We can afford it ! ” was the reply. 

Here there is a man who has spent all his 
best years in our service. He has despised 
and contemned God, angels, and men. Lucifer, 
son of the morning, was not more richly en- 


164 


Why Satan Trembles, 


dowed with self-reliance and with pride. He 
is one of the strong men of his times. Behold 
him now.” 

They looked and beheld a gray-haired, ven- 
erable man lying in the very dust, not so 
much as lifting his eyes unto heaven, but 
smiting on his breast and crying, God be 
merciful to me, a sinner!” He recounts the 
sins of his youth and of his manhood. He 
declares that he abhors himself, and repents 
in dust and ashes. He entreats forgiveness, 
with rivers of water flowing from his eyes. 
Every word he speaks comes heaving up from 
the very depths of his soul. He does not 
know that he is humble and like a little child ; 
he only knows that he is a sinner against God. 
And, alas, for the emissaries of Satan ! He 
who inspired, also hears this prayer. Their 
eyes behold Him in His beauty ; they de- 
spise, and esteem Him not ; but still they see 
Him visibly present, with tender eyes and lov- 
ing glance. How gladly they escape from this 
uncongenial scene, and fly for refreshment to 
kindred souls ! 


Why Satan Trembles, 165 

“That man has prayed thus for years. 
Every day his confessions become more ample 
and more minute. Morning, noon, and night 
he withdraws from business and pleasure, and 
comes to this spot, and prostrates himself be- 
fore God. And he never has come to an 
empty room. His Master is always there 
waiting for, expecting him. For such a man 
to go from such a Presence into the pursuit of 
our interests, is simply impossible.” 

So spake the evil spirit, and trembled as he 
spake. 

The two passed next an open door, whence 
a coffin was borne tenderly out. 

“ That was the only son of his mother, and 
she was a widow,” said the elder to the younger. 
“ Let us hasten to her, that in her sorrow she 
may not maintain her allegiance.” 

They approached the couch on which she 
had thrown herself, and even these malignant 
beings respected, and were for a moment silent 
before her sorrow. 

Then he who was most hardened in sin 
whispered : 


i66 


W/ty Satan Trembles, 


It was your one little ewe lamb, that slept 
in your bosom ! It was all you had left. 
Earth has no longer a single joy for you. And 
how many other mothers are at this moment 
sitting as queens in homes never made desolate 
by death. Why should you be smitten while 
they are spared ? Revolt against Him who 
has dealt so unjustly with you ; curse Him 
and die ! ” 

In her despair she did not recognize the 
voice of the Tempter; she fancied these re- 
bellious, thoughts originated in her own breast. 
“ Is it possible that I am upbraiding my Lord 
and Master? ” she cried. “ Let me fly to Him 
for refuge from myself.” 

She fell down on her knees and lifted up 
her face all wet with tears. Not a word fell 
from her lips. Her prayer was a simple look- 
ing upward, a groan, a speechless cry. And 
yet the Master responded to the look, and 
came and sorrowed with her. 

Do not grieve, my child,” He said, that 
you can not take words and come with them 
to me in this time of sorrow. I have seen thy 


Why Satan Trembles. 


167 


tears, and I accept them as the only sacrifice thy 
broken heart can offer. Weep on, here at my 
feet.” 

She lay and wept, till, for a time, her grief 
was spent, and when she looked up she saw 
the compassionate face of Him who had smit- 
ten her. 

‘‘Ah, how many times I have asked for faith 
with which to say, ‘ Thy will be done ! ’ Lord, 
I can say it now : 

“ * My Jesus, as Thou wilt, oh, let Thy will be mine; 

Into Thy hand of love I would my all resign ! ’ ” 

“ Come up hence,” said the evil spirits to 
each other. “ We can gain nothing here. This 
atmosphere is stifling. A curse on prayers, and 
a curse on those who offer them ! ” 

They darted away, and in the darkness of 
midnight alighted on a battle-field, where, in 
the gloom and obscurity, lay hundreds of 
suffering, maimed, and dying men. A solitary 
chaplain, with a feeble squad of assistants, 
was passing from point to point, seeking in 
the spirit of heaven itself to save somewhat 


i68 


Why Satan Trembles, 


out of this wreck and ruin of humanity. But 
few out of that number could his small force 
bear away. As he carefully picked his way 
among the dead and dying, a boy cast upon 
him an imploring glance. But it was seen 
only by the spirits of evil, who hovered near, 
awaiting their prey. The salvation of a 
human soul trembled in the balance. The 
boy remembered his wild and reckless youth ; 
his mother’s prayers; his father’s blessings. 
He knew, as he watched the chaplain’s re- 
treating figure; that all hope for this life was 
over. One refuge alone availed him. He 
clasped his hands and cried in his despair : 

“ Here, Lord, I give myself away ; 

'Tis all that I can do ! ” 

And as the words died on his lips, the two 
evil spirits stepped aside and gave place to 
the angels who came to bear the new-born 
soul into the presence of its Redeemer. 

He entered heaven by prayer.” 

It was Sunday, and a popular preacher ad- 
dressed a brilliant assemblage. Outwardly all 


Why Satan Trembles, 169 

was devout and serious. Men who through 
the week had served themselves with diligence, 
had now come together to serve the Lord. 
They knelt and called themselves miserable 
sinners. They joined in songs of praise with 
decency and order. They listened with de- 
corum to the voice of their favorite, and mag- 
nified him in their hearts. But when the 
service was over, they rose and passed out in- 
to the world. They spoke together of the 
times, and of business and pleasure. Women 
studied, as they had done through the hour so 
outwardly solemn, each other’s toilets, and de- 
vised their own. 

The younger spy congratulated his comrade 
on the success of the day. 

“ You look only on the surface,” was the 
reply. We have friends here, it is true ; but 
we have foes, likewise. Half these people 
will go home and shut themselves up in that 
villainous spot cant calls their ^ closet,’ and 
pray for the other half. And now let us fol- 
low the preacher to his.” 

I kept at him through the whole service,” 


170 Why Satan Trembles, 

said the other, reminding him of his popu- 
larity and plying him with conceited sugges- 
tions. We are sure of him in the end.” 

They followed him to his study, and saw 
the flush of satisfaction fade from his cheek, 
the light die out from his eye. He paced his 
room with clasped hands and uncertain steps. 
Suddenly he fell upon his knees and raised his 
eyes to heaven. The spies drew near and 
listened. 

“ O my God, search me and try me, and 
see if there be any wicked way in me ! If I 
have preached myself and not my Master, 
Lord, forgive me ! If I have veiled the truth 
under too plausible words, O my Father, for- 
give me ! If one hungry soul has gone forth 
from Thy sanctuary unfed, lay not the sin to 
my charge ! Have pity on my ignorance and 
weakness, and teach me how to win souls for 
Thee! Accept my poor attempt to honor 
Thee, in the name and for the sake of Christ 
Jesus, Thy Son ! ” 

“ Baffled again I ” cried the spies, exchang- 
ing glances. Let us away ! ” 


Why Satan Trembles, 171 

They went from clime to clime, from mount- 
ain to valley, from the palace to the hovel, 
from old to young. Wherever they went 
temptation went too. But everywhere they 
found . themselves met and resisted by the 
sacred habit of struggling souls, that, con- 
scious of their own weakness and of Divine 
strength, cast and ventured themselves on 
God. 

“ We have learned the fatal secret,” was 
their report on their return to their own in- 
fernal abode. “As long as men and women 
and little children believe in praying and do 
pray, they are beyond our reach. After visit- 
ing thousands and thousands of homes, and 
penetrated to their most sacred observances, 
we return disheartened and afraid. For of 
thousands and tens of thousands our sad re- 
port is, 

“ Behold, he prayeth ! ” 


I’-. 


» . ^ . I 


1 , ' 


• -. 4 1 



' r* 


- ' ‘v ■ ' 

i, ‘ ** ? dOo 








Having Nothing, yet Having All. 



BOY sat by the side of a clear stream, 


^ ^ listening to its melodious voice in 
thoughtful silence, while his companions sport- 
ed on its bank not far away. 

How the fishes dart about ! ” he said to 
himself, and how cool and clear the waters 
are ! I wish I were a fish. It is so hot and 
dusty here in the sun, and it must be so nice 
down there ! ’’ 

The more he watched the waters the more 
musically their notes fell upon his ear. 

“ People say that men and women and chil- 
dren can not live in the water,” he went on. 

But why can’t they ? I don’t see why. At 
any rate, I am going to try it for myself.” 

The stream was not very deep, but the boy 
was very little, and instead of darting glee- 
fully about, as he had expected to do, he soon 
began to pant for breath as the fatal waters 


(173) 


174 Having Nothing, yet Having AIL 

closed around him. The other children, hap- 
pening to see the plight he was in, came and 
pulled him out, and after a time he was suffi- 
ciently recovered to be able to describe the 
experiment he had been trying. They all 
laughed at him and ran back to their play. 
But he sat, thoughtfully, on the bank, ponder- 
ing the question, “ If fishes can live in the 
water, why can not I ? ” At last, an old man 
came along and said to the child : 

A penny for your thoughts, little boy.” 

I was wondering why I could not live in 
the water, like fishes,” was the reply. 

“ You were not made to live in the water,” 
said the old man, and went his way. 

Meanwhile the fishes were shyly watching 
the group of children at their play, noting the 
bright faces and the merry laughter, and one 
of them, in his eagerness to see and hear and 
join in the sport, fairly leaped out of his native 
element into the throng. But it was to pain, 
not to pleasure. He lay panting for breath, 
turning this way and that for relief, suffering 
almost unto death. 


Having Nothing, yet Having All. 175 

See that poor little fish ! ” cried the chil- 
dren. He has leaped ofPt of the water and 
is dying. Let us throw him back again.” 

The fish soon recovered himself, but was 
thenceforth sadder and wiser. 

“ Everything up there looked so pleasant,” 
he said to himself. “ Why was I so miserable 
where others were so happy ? ” 

A sage among his companions replied, in 
passing : 

“ You were not made to live on land.” 

Now there was a young man in those days 
who, looking upon a certain element in which 
others disported themselves, naturally imag- 
ined that they were as happy as they were 
merry and that he could find felicity as they 
fancied they found it. And this was not the 
expectation of a foolish and thoughtless mind. 
There was not a wiser man in his generation. 
Nor was it the hope of a merely worldly man. 
He was a man who, to a certain degree, loved 
and feared God and was in the habit of pray- 
ing to Him. 

Nor was it the result of a narrow, superficial 


176 Having Nothings yet Having AIL 

character, for he possessed a great, wide heart, 
capable of unbounded happiness. What he 
lacked was what all young people lack— ex- 
perience. He had been told that the element 
of pleasure in which most men tried to live 
was not their native element, but he did not 
believe it. It looked attractive, and he re- 
solved to give it a fair trial. 

And he began by getting everything he 
wanted. Whatever he saw that pleased his 
eye he seized. If he wanted houses he built 
them. If he wanted gardens he planted them. 
Every sort of fruit he could hear of grew in 
his vineyards and orchards. He ate his food 
and drank his wine from vessels of pure gold. 
His ships traversed the seas and poured the 
treasures of foreign lands into his gorgeous 
palaces. 

If there were any treasures that were con- 
sidered royal, those treasures he made his 
peculiar search till they became his own. He 
was fond of music and feasted himself on it 
prodigally, gathering its best artists about him, 
both men and women. He loved knowledge, 


Having Nothings yet Having AIL 177 

and acquired it to such a degree that no ques- 
tion could be asked him to which he could 
not give a ready answer. He loved the nat- 
ural sciences, and could instruct all men in the 
habits and history of every beast of the field, 
every tree in the forest, every flower that 
grows. He was a poet, and his soul found 
vent in hundreds of songs. He was a philoso- 
pher, and his words were so full of wisdom 
that they became proverbs. He loved fame, 
and even royalty came from afar to honor him. 
And they who served him were called happy 
in the privilege of living for such a master. 

Surely, all the conditions of happiness are 
here: Youth, Learning, Wealth, Love, Fame 
— not a desire unsatisfied, not a gift denied. 
And yet all so failed of its end, that while liv- 
ing in this false element, life was such a 'bur- 
den to him that he said of it, “ I hate it ! ” 

Where was his mistake ? Are not many of 
the innocent, sweet joys of life to be found 
where he sought and failed to find them? Un- 
doubtedly. The boy who sat by the stream 
and fancied its waters were cool and agreeable 


12 


178 Having Nothings yet Having AIL 

was right in believing them to be so, but 
wrong in the conclusion that they were, there- 
fore, the element in which he could live. The 
fish thought the grassy bank a desirable spot 
because he saw merry faces and heard gay 
voices there, and so it was ; but the air was 
not the element in which he was formed to 
exist. 

There lies upon a hard bed in an obscure 
home a poor woman, who had lain there un- 
noticed by the world eight and twenty years. 
She has never known what it was to indulge 
herself in her life. Her childhood was a 
struggle, and physical existence has long been 
one. Her resources are very few. The only 
landscape she has seen for years is the smoke- 
stained ceiling of her own room. Her coarse 
food revolts her invalid appetite^ She is not 
gifted in intellect ; has no culture in the sense 
in which that word is used ; there is nothing 
attractive about her person ; she is only a 
plain, unlearned, suffering woman, whom 
people would patronize if they knew her 
wants, and then go away and forget. But she 


Having Nothing, yet Having All. 179 

is not trying to live in pleasure, and so is not 
dead while she liveth. She has learned, not 
through any might or power or wisdom of her 
own, that God is the element in which the hu- 
man soul was formed to live, and in Him she 
lives and moves and has her being. 

Let us hear what she says about it : 

“ I never had any thoughts about anything. 
It was just get up in the morning and go to 
work, and work all day long, and then when it 
came night go to bed and to sleep. It went 
on so till I was eighteen years old, and then 
John Turner began to come to see me, and 
we got to talking about being married some 
time. After that the work didn’t seem so 
hard ; I would get to thinking about him, and 
the time would slip away, and when it came 
night he always came, and we saved and plan- 
ned and talked about having a snug little 
home of our own. If anybody had come 
along then and talked to me about God and 
heaven, I shouldn’t have listened. I should 
have said, ^ I’ve got John, and that’s enough.’ 

“ But one day I had a fall. I was sitting in 


i8o Having Nothings yet Having AIL 

the wagon, on a chair, and the chair upset and 
I fell out, backwards. At first they thought I 
wasn’t hurt much, and I kept expecting and 
expecting to get well. But instead of that I 
grew more helpless every day. My mother 
had led a hard life before, but now she had 
my work to do, and had me to take care of. 
But when she began to break down, John 
came and lived here as if he was her own son, 
and help lift me when I had to be moved, and 
was kind and gentle, like a woman. 

“ So it went on a good while, and then it 
began to come to me that I should never get 
well, and never be John’s wife. I lay and 
cried about it when nobody was by, and I said 
to myself, * Other girls are Well and strong, 
and get married to ones they love, but I’ve 
got to lie here, and it’s hard, it’s hard.’ 

“And then I noticed how loving John was 
to little children, how he was always bringing 
them in on his shoulder, and making much of 
them. And one day I said to him — it came 
out the minute I thought of it — * John, you’ll 
never marry me ; I shall never be well enough. 


Having Nothings yet Having All. i8i 

And you ought not to be tied to me. You 
ought to find a nice, tidy girl, and get married 
to her.’ He said he never could or would, 
and got up and went and sat on the door- 
step, and I heard him sigh twice. And I lay 
all night wishing I hadn’t spoken those words, 
for I thought if they drove him away from me 
to some other girl, I should die. 

“ So years went by, and he was as kind 
and gentle as ever, but I began to miss some- 
thing out of him. It isn’t worth while to 
make a long story of it. He was ever so 
much ashamed and cried about it ; but he 
wanted a lass who could make a home for 
him, and I made it easy for him ; and he went 
and got married to Huldy Jones. The first 
time he brought her to see me I felt as if I 
could strike her dead. But, after they’d gone, 
I asked mother to bring me a little looking- 
glass. I hadn’t thought to look at myself for 
a long time. Well, what did I see ? Not the 
wholesome young thing John used to court, 
but a faded, worn-out, uncomely, oldish 
woman. My forehead, that once was white 


1 82 Having Nothings yet Having AIL 

and smooth, was nothing but a set of wrinkles ; 
my eyes, that used to laugh so, had grown 
dull and leaden ; and where I was sound and 
plump, I was now long and lean. I lay and 
looked at myself a whole hour, and then I 
forgave John, and I forgave Huldy, and said, 
‘ Fve got mother left, and there’s nobody, after 
all, like a mother.’ 

But somehow I pined for John, and the 
more I broke down the more I wore on 
mother. I’ll make it as short as I can ; 
mother died. It seemed strange that I didn’t 
die, too, but I didn’t ; I just lived and suffered. 

Somebody had got to take care of me, but 
nobody wanted to do it ; I was so fractious 
and complaining. But at last an old woman 
came, for the sake of earning her living, poor 
thing. And John sometimes brought Huldy 
to see me. She had no reason to be jealous 
of what little there was left of me, and she 
wasn’t. But when I saw those two young 
things together, I realized that John was not 
my John any longer, and I missed his love and 
missed mother’s. And I said to myself, 


Having Nothing, yet Having All. 183 

What is the reason we have hearts if the 
things we love change and die? Is it to tor- 
ment us ? ’ I used to lay awake nights, think- 
ing and moaning ; only I had to moan softly, 
lest they should hear. And I began to re- 
member that my grandmother, who was a 
godly woman, used to say, and keep saying, 
that any one who had God for a Friend had 
got all he needed. Then I began to feel 'round 
after Him, but in the dark : for this is a lone- 
some neighborhood, and it's seldom that I see 
any one except the family. Of course, I had 
a Bible, but hadn't read it much. I never 
took to books. But now I began to read it 
all the time. I wanted to find out what I 
must do to get God to like me and be my 
Friend. 

“ I don't suppose anybody in the world was 
so lonesome as I was ; for, though to look at 
me lying here like one dead, it would seem as 
if 1 had got too old and too sick to want some- 
body to love me, I never had cared so much 
— not even when I was a girl. And I thought 
if I left off fretting and crying, and grew pa- 


184 Having Nothings yet Having AIL 

tient and quiet and good, that perhaps God 
would be sorry for me, and perhaps come in 
time to give me a kind thought now and then. 
But I couldn’t make myself good. The more 
I tried the worse I grew. And, though I left 
off fretting with words, the fret was in me just 
the same, and as I got no comfort out of God, 
I began to get angry with Him. I said to 
myself, ‘ If it hadn’t been for that fall I should 
be John’s wife. It’s too bad.’ 

^ You see, I was kicking against the pricks. 
One day John brought his two boys to see 
me. One of them was four years old, and the 
other just beginning to walk and to get into 
mischief. He was shy at first and clung to 
his father’s neck; but after a time he got 
down and ran about the room, meddling, as 
children will, with everything. John took 
away things he ought not to have several 
times. At last the child got a knife off the 
table, and when his father tried to make him 
give it up, screamed and ran away with it. 
John caught him, took away the knife, and 
struck his hands twice. It hurt me to see the 


Having Nothings yet Having All, 185 

child’s lip quiver, and I said, ‘ A moment ago 
you couldn’t fondle Johnny enough, and now 
you strike him.’ 

Yes, I strike him just as I fondle him, 
because I love him. Isn’t it my duty to make 
an obedient boy of him ? ’ 

The words went right through me. Was 
it because God loved me that He let me get 
the fall ? Should I ever have thought of Him 
if I had kept strong and well ? And then I 
opened my Bible and came to the text, ‘ We 
love Him because He first loved us ;’ and it 
seemed as if God’s Holy Spirit took pity on 
my ignorance and set me to reading all the 
verses that taught that He loved us, not be- 
cause He saw anything good in us, but be- 
cause loving is just His way. The very heart 
in me leaped up for joy, and I began to love 
Him that minute. I saw as plain as day, 
that though I’d grown so sickly and cross- 
grained and tiresome that nobody in the world 
could bear me. He was sorry that I was sick, 
and sorry that I had grown to be fretful and 
peevish and disagreeable. It astonished me 


1 86 Having Nothings yet Having AIL 

so and I was so taken up with it that I never 
knew when John went away. To think that 
God could love me I I couldn’t make it out. 
The next time John came, he stood by th^ 
side of the bed and says to me, ‘ How are 
you to-day, Sarah ? As bad as ever ? ’ — mean- 
ing my pain. 

‘‘‘Yes, as bad as ever,’ says I, ‘but I’ve 
got acquainted with God since you were here, 
and if I’m. bad, good; I can’t tell you 
how good.’ 

“ John looked at the old woman, then, who 
takes care of me, and put his finger up to his 
forehead, as much as to say, ‘ There’s some- 
thing wrong with her mind.’ 

“ ‘ Let her be,’ says she ; ‘I’ve heard people 
talk this way before.’ 

“ ‘ You think I’m having a hard time, John,’ 
says I, ‘ but I’m having the best time in the 
world. I’ve got everything I want.’ 

“ ‘ Don’t you want to be well ? ’ says he. 

“‘No, I want everything just as it is.’ 

“John is a great, strong man, as tall and 
straight as a poplar tree, and I never saw him 


Having Nothings yet Having AIL 187 

cry but once before ; but now the tears began 
to run down his cheeks. 

“Well, it went on so that I never had a 
lonesome moment. When I wasn’t reading 
my Bible, or speaking to God, He was speak- 
ing to me, saying such kind and comforting 
and loving things ! I don’t think He could 
seem so tender to people who are well and 
strong. 

“ I used to lie awake thinking how poor I 
was, and what a hard bed this was to lie on 
so many years, and to wish I could have a 
little change in my food, or some one come 
in to talk to me and cheer me a bit. But 
now I can’t think of anything I want. If I 
could have all the money in the world, and 
everything money could buy, and ever so 
many friends, and be young and well and 
strong again, but have to give up what I 
I’ve learned in this sick-room, I wouldn’t give 
up an atom of it. We read in the Bible 
about Jesus going around among poor people 
and sick people and dying people, and how 
sorry He was for them, and what He said to 


1 88 Having Nothingy yet Having AIL 

them, and what He did for them. Well, He 
hasn’t changed a bit since then. He comes 
here into this poor little room and sits down 
here by the bed, and makes me so happy that 
I’m ashamed. And I’m going to thank Him 
as long as I live that He never gave me many 
of the things people call good, and even took 
away what He did give, because now I’ve got 
nothing but Him, and He is enough.” 

Isn’t this all a delusion ? ” 

“ Well, suppose it is ; what harm has it done 
me ? It has made a palace out of this hovel, 
and a happy woman out of a miserable one. 
But it isn’t a delusion. It’s all in the Bible, 
every word of it, and more too. You just 
take it and sit down and read the promises, 
and then push everything out of the way that 
you love better than you love God, and take 
Him at His word, and you’ll see what He is and 
that I haven’t said half enough about Him, 
not half enough. Oh, how I thank Him that 
He took away the use of my young limbs and 
laid me on this bed of pain; that He took 


Having Nothings yet Having A IL 1 89 

away John ; that He took away mother — all I 
had! 

And now I know what the Bible means 
when it says, *As having nothing, and yet 
possessing all things 1 ’ 



SUCCESS AND DEFEAT. 


T WO young men, Robert Neale and Wil- 
liam Collier, entered college together, and 
during the four succeeding years a warm 
friendship sprang up between them. Fellow- 
students wondered what points of congeniality 
there were between them, and would have 
sneered at their Quixotic union, but for the 
fact that everything Neale said and did ap- 
peared right in all eyes. He was a brilliant, 
attractive, popular young fellow. Nature had 
done for him all she could. She seemed to 
have been amusing herself by giving him so» 
many varied talents, so genial a humor, so 
noble and manly a person. When William 
Collier, rather small for his age, found that 
the college favorite accepted his homage gra- 
ciously, he could hardly believe his senses, and 
he often asked himself what he had done that 

(191) 


192 Success and Defeat. 

entitled him to favors others sought in vain. 
Neale often asked himself what bound him to 
Collier, who possessed none of the originality 
and freshness that makes an agreeable com- 
panion. The fact was, that the latter under- 
stood him better than any other classmate 
did, and that on the principle that it is the 
inferior natures that appreciate, indulge, rev- 
erence, and even comprehend genius the 
most.” Perhaps the philosophy of this prin- 
ciple may be found in the fact, that the “ in- 
ferior nature ” finding little to admire in itself, 
naturally seeks something to admire out of 
and above itself. But be that as it may, the 
two were almost constantly together — the one 
adoring, the other adored. 

Neale had leisure to make himself agreeable 
to many another besides his chum. It cost 
him little time to prepare himself for his reci- 
tations, and, while Collier plodded painfully 
at his task, he was here, there, and everywhere, 
the life of every festivity. It came to be un- 
derstood that he was to receive all the enco- 
miums and bear off all the honors, and he had 


Success and Defeat. 


193 


such a joyous way of accepting the situation, 
v/as so free from any superior airs, that his 
success was rather enjoyed than envied. 

As the years passed, his friends at home 
were kept in a state of constant elation by the 
accounts they received of him, and during his 
vacations he was treated as a hero and caressed 
and looked up to in a way that might easily 
have turned any head. 

Meanwhile, Collier was not making his mark 
in any way. He was doing the best he could, 
and his family loved him and made much of 
him, and, as he shone in the reflected light of 
Robert Neale, fancied him a good deal of a 
man. But they felt it to be a great misfortune 
when, during his last year in college, he fell in 
love with a very young girl and became en- 
gaged to her. ‘*What business had a mere 
boy like our Will to do such an imprudent 
thing ? " they cried. “ He can’t be married 
for years and years. Besides, his tastes may 
entirely change ; what satisfies him now may 
not please him in the least in the future.” 
All this was true, but it did not alter the fact 


194 


Success and Defeat. 


that “ our Will,” having hitherto been called a 
man, did not consider himself a boy, and was 
not disposed to make concessions which might 
seem due to that title. So that, when the 
two young men graduated, one went off with 
flying colors to a more than satisfied circle of 
friends, the other with no honors and to a dis- 
appointed family. 

Neale’s delighted father now sent him 
abroad, where he spent as much money as he 
pleased, fascinated everybody he met, and 
found life charming in every aspect. Collier 
entered a Theological Seminary, feeling him- 
self a little under a cloud. His family were 
not entirely pleased with him, and he found 
his love affair a clog to his student-life. At 
the same time^ he was too far in for it to re- 
cede. His beloved admired him, if nobody 
else did ; she had never complained that he 
did not shine in college; one of these days, 
when he should stand in his pulpit, he should 
see that sweet face turned reverently upward 
toward his. He wished he had a higher mo- 
tive for diligence in his studies than to please 


Success and Defeat* 


195 


this little unfledged bird ; but he said to him- 
self that she was a rare bird, and so she was, 
and that one day his family would admire his 
choice. 

But that day was never to come. He was 
suddenly stunned by the news that this rare 
bird had spread her wings and flown upward 
out of his reach. When his family saw how 
grief unmanned him they wished they could 
recall her, and did for him everything affection- 
ate, sympathizing friends could do. But a 
sorrow Robert Neale could soon have thrown 
off his joyous nature, clung to this opposite 
one with leaden hands. He could not study, 
could not interest himself in anything. An 
inward voice whispered, at least to say, God’s 
will be done.” But he could not say it ; and, 
alarmed for his health, his friends sent him 
abroad. It was an important point in his his- 
tory ; perhaps, if he had stayed at home, his 
sorrow would have wrought for him an exceed- 
ing joy. It certainly had a somewhat elevat- 
ing effect. But foreign travel is not favorable 
to reflection or to prayer. He joined his old 


ig6 Success and Defeat, 

friend Neale, admired his sallies of wit, and 
was cheered by his overflowing spirits. For a 
pure man Neale was intensely human. His 
health was perfect and he loved to live for the 
sake of living. He intended to go to heaven 
when he died, of course, but wanted to have 
a good time on earth first, and when Collier, 
who could not help speculating about the 
place to which his Mary had gone, spoke of 
the next life, he would become quite serious 
for the moment and add his own speculations, 
which were quaint enough. 

Measuring Collier’s piety by his own, he 
fancied him quite a saint, and respected him 
as such. 

“ If such trouble as yours had come upon 
me,” he said, “ I should see some sense in it. 
No doubt, a whipping would do me good. 
But why an exemplary fellow like you should 
have such a disappointment, I can’t see.” 
Yet in a thoughtless moment, speaking of Col- 
lier to a mutual friend, he said, I love the 
boy, and it hurts me to see him suffer so. But 


Success and Defeat. 197 

what a pity he hasn’t sense enough to ciit’se 
God and die. I should, in his place.” 

Two years later the friends returned home. 
Neale began to study law ; Collier returned to 
the seminary. Time had tempered, but not 
healed, his sorrow. He had come back a dis- 
ciplined man, expecting far less from life than 
he had done, and disposed to take what came, 
quietly. Neale still fascinated him ; they met 
often, and the friendship absorbed his leisure ; 
so that he formed no intimate one among his 
fellow-students until the last year of his course. 
Then a very different man crossed his path. 
His name was Bruce. He one day read a ser- 
mon before his class, for their criticism. It 
was on the subject of chastisement. Collier 
had suffered enough to know that even the 
young can speak on this subject experiment- 
ally, but he had not made the wise use of his 
discipline that this sermon enjoined. He 
sought Bruce at the earliest opportunity, and 
in a long conversation with him began to un- 
derstand, for the first time, that the brilliant 
man is not necessarily the most useful, nor 


198 


Success and Defeat, 


the prosperous the happiest. Bruce had been 
in a hard school — the school of poverty, of 
disappointment, of bereavement ; there he 
had learned to get down on his knees and to 
pray, and to suffer in faith and patience. 
From that moment a new life began to open 
itself to Collier’s darkened understanding. 
He saw that to get all one wants out of life 
is not necessarily success ; that to be thwarted, 
disappointed, bereaved, is not necessarily de- 
feat. Taking this thought for his text, he 
began to understand what had befallen him 
and to face the future with fresh courage. 
’And he needed this courage, for his way was 
hedged up. He candidated ” here and can- 
didated there; he grew less ambitious, had 
less faith in himself, every day. His father 
was not a rich man and had made great sacri- 
fices in educating him, and he felt that it was 
high time to support himself. But the door 
of success was closed to him ; he was not pop- 
ular. 

Meanwhile, Robert Neale had become es- 
tablished as a lawyer, with most brilliant pros- 


Success and Defeat, 


199 


pects. He was finding time to write humor- 
ous poems that were welcomed in private and 
public, was going to marry a “splendid” girl, 
and was the very picture of a prosperous, tal- 
ented, satisfied man. But while Collier ad- 
mired his genius as much as ever, they were 
imperceptibly drifting apart. The one was 
drinking joyfully at earthly fountains and find- 
ing the waters sparkling, exhilarating, and 
sweet. The other found these fountains 
sealed to him, and was drinking, in silent 
ecstasy and amazement, those waters of which 
if a man drink he shall never thirst. 

Robert Neale’s marriage took place about 
this time with great pomp and ceremony. 
But shortly after that event. Collier was star- 
tled by a great change in his hitherto genial, 
care-free friend. All the brightness that had 
charmed him in the past was gone, though 
there was an assumed gayety that deceived 
the world. Collier’s sympathies were at 
once aroused, and he caught his friend af- 
fectionately by the hand, expecting his confi- 
dence : 


200 Success and Defeat, 

What is it, dear Robert ? What is going 
wrong?” he inquired. 

Nothing is going wrong, old fellow. Take 
off that long face.” 

*‘You can’t deceive me. Something is 
wearing on you.” 

“Let me alone. Nobody lives on roses. 
I’ve thrown away my chance of being a saint, 
like you, and all thafs up.” 

Thus repulsed. Collier went his way, per- 
plexed and troubled. There was only one 
thing he could do, and that was to pray, and 
pray he did. He had another chance to can- 
didate in a remote country village, and went 
with fresh hopes. But his sermon, full of 
plain common sense, and for a man of his age, 
wonderfully experienced, did not take. They 
wanted a wide-awake, talented man, who 
would stir them up and interest the young 
people. This new rebuff sent him where all 
disappointments sent him now, right to his 
God and Saviour, with the silent cry, “ Thy will 
be done. Thy will be done.” 

“ It is strange that our Will can not find a 


Success and Defeat. 201 

set of people who can appreciate him,” said 
his mother. I know he isn’t one of your 
noisy, clap-trap men, but he’s made a good 
use of his troubles, and, for my part, I like to 
hear him preach.” 

“ Being his mother, that’s rather peculiar,” 
said one of her daughters, to whom the remark 
was made. 

“ Well, Mrs. Peck isn’t his mother, and she 
said the last sermon she heard him preach was 
really wonderful.” 

It sounded wonderful to her because she 
has known Will ever since he was a baby; 
and, besides, her judgment isn’t worth a 
straw. The truth is, Will is a dear, good boy, 
but he never will reach or stir the popular 
heart. I almost wish he had studied some 
other profession.” 

“ Would you rather have him like Robert 
Neale?” 

** I would not have him like Robert Neale, 
but, being just what he is, I should be glad if 
he had some of his genius besides. 1 feel so 
sorry for him when he comes dragging himself 


202 Success and Defeat. 

home from his unsuccessful expeditions, look- 
ing so patient, yet so disappointed. Why 
should Robert Neale and such as he have all 
the good times, and Will all the bad ones? 
Why should other men get into lucrative, 
honorable positions, settle down in life, have 
all they want, and our Will stand out in the 
cold?” 

Even so. Father: for it so seems good in 
Thy sight,’ ” was the reply. 

Well, I will own I should like a brother to 
be proud of.” 

Y ou have a brother to be proud of. When 
you are so old as I am, you will value good- 
ness rnore than you value intellect and worldly 
advantages now. I would rather be the 
mother of my Will, just as he is, than the 
mother of Robert Neale. And Will will find 
his place, yet. The stone that is fit for the 
wall is never left in the road. I am thankful 
that I have never sought great things for my 
children. All I have ever desired for any of 
you is that you may be ^ content to fill a little 
space, if God be glorified.’ ” 


Success and Defeat. 


203 


The conversation was interrupted, and not 
resumed for some days, when it was renewed, 
on this wise, the mother and daughter sitting 
together at their work : 

^‘Have you heard the dreadful stories they 
are whispering about Robert Neale, mother? 

Yes, I have heard them, and am sorry you 
have.” 

“ Of course they are not true? ” 

The mother was silent. 

“ They are too dreadful to be true.” 

Let us hope so.” 

“ Mother,” said Will, entering the room, 
“ can I see you alone a moment ? ” 

“Always some secret between you and 
mother,” said the sister, gayly. “ I suppose 
that is a gentle hint for me to retreat. Well, 
Fm off!” 

“ I need not ask you what you have come 
to tell. Will,” said his mother, when they were 
alone. “That gifted young man has fallen. 
I had heard it whispered, but could not be- 
lieve it.” 

“Yes, his name is stained; he is a fallen 


204 


Success and Defeat. 


star. I could not have believed it. Every- 
thing looked so full of promise for him, he 
was so bright, had always been so pure ! How 
proud we all were of him ! Oh, mother, how 
thankful it makes me feel that God has kept 
me down ! If I had had Robert’s genius, I 
should have gone to ruin just as he has. He 
was too richly endowed ; too stron*^ in his own 
strength ! Oh, Robert ! Robert ! ” 

Do not let us think of him as ruined. Let 
us pray for him day and night, that he may 
pass out of this cloud a wiser and a better 
man. While he was so full of earthly pros- 
perity, he felt no need of God ; now that he 
has stumbled and fallen on the threshold of 
life, he will call upon Him.” 

“ I hope so ; I do hope so. Mother, I have 
one chance more to preach as a candidate. I 
have seen the time when I should have felt 
that a man of my education ought not to look 
at such a field of labor. But my Lord and 
Master has humbled me, and taught me to go 
anywhere He went. And He went among the 
very poor, and the very ignorant. Pray, while 


Success and Defeat. 205 

I am gone, that if I am the right man, I may 
be going to the right people.” 

He went, and the people heard him gladly. 
The right man had found the right place, at 
last. He had a lowly home, his name was 
never heard of outside of his own little parish, 
but it was loved there, and he was happy in 
his obscurity. He was happy, for amid his 
many trials and sorrows, and hopes long de- 
ferred, he had learned Christ as few learn Him, 
and preached Him as few preach : not with 
enticing words of man’s wisdom, but through 
the teachings of the Spirit, and out of his own 
experience. 

As I am not writing a romantic, aimless fic- 
tion, but painting life as it really is, I shall 
have to own that he found a wife to share his 
new home. Of course, sentimental people 
will say he ought to have remained that one- 
sided, one-winged creature, an old bachelor, 
and had himself carefully labeled, Sacred to 
a memory.” But he had an honest heart, and 
gave it to an honest woman, who blessed him, 
and whom he blessed. 


2o6 


Success and Defeat, 


And while peace nestled in his heart and 
settled on his face, while in all lowliness and 
meekness he was adorning the Gospel of 
Christ, Robert Neale envied him his pure con- 
science, and walked the earth an unhappy, 
dishonored man, feeling his great gifts little 
better than mockery. The race is not to the 
swift, nor the battle to the strong. The life 
of the defeated was a success ; the life of the 
successful a defeat. 


“On the Banks of the River of Life. 


N earnest teacher of a Bible-class of 



^ young ladies brought them together, 
one evening, in her own house. She had for 
years watched over these souls, praying for 
and with them, individually, and her labors 
had been crowned with a certain success. But 
she felt, herself, and had taught them to feel, 
that the work of life does not consist in mere- 
ly entering the kingdom of God, enjoying a 
comfortable hope of final salvation, and sitting 
down at ease, or letting things drift as they 
might. No, they know that in coming out on 
the Lord’s side, they had taken only one step ; 
that there was yet a race to run, and a prize 
to win. But they were young, and their aims 
were indefinite, and for this reason they now 
sat around their beloved friend and teacher. 


(207) 


2o8 On the Banks of the River of LifeB 

seeking her counsel, listening to the voice of 
her experience. 

They had been associated together thus 
from early childhood, hence much of the re- 
serve and shyness under which young people 
suffer had gradually disappeared. And Miss 
Graham was so very much in earnest that they 
had caught an inspiration from her, and in 
various degrees were in earnest too. 

“ People say,” remarked Agnes W., that it 
is not necessary to be so very strict, and try 
to be so very good. Even the saints have to 
be saved through Christ, just like the worst 
sinners ; and one is not more sure of getting 
to heaven at last, than another. I never 
know how to answer them when they say such 
things.” 

Miss Graham smiled. 

“ Let us take up one thing at a time,” she 
said. “ In the first place, is getting to heaven 
the great work of life ? ” 

“ I always thought it was,” said one. 

So did I,” declared a second. 

“We shall have to go back to our cate- 


“ On the Banks of the River of Life'" 209 

chism/’ continued Miss Graham. ^‘We are 
taught there that ‘ man’s chief end is to glorify 
God, and to enjoy Him forever.’ To enjoy 
Him is subordinate to glorifying Him. Now, 
who best fulfills the object of his existence — 
he who loves God just enough to furnish him 
with a faint hope that he shall be finally saved, 
or he who loves Him so amply, so generously, 
that he is far more intent on finding out ways 
in which his devotion may give itself expres- 
sion, than in asking the question, ‘ Have I 
been born again? — on how little love and 
faith can I be saved ? ’ ” 

There was silence for some minutes, as the 
young people pondered the thought thus sug- 
gested. 

^^And now for another point,” proceeded 
Miss Graham. “What proof has the worst 
sinner that he is in a state of grace, if he builds 
his hope of salvation on the fact that he once 
passed through certain exercises which he, at 
the time, believed — or rather hoped than be- 
lieved — resulted in his conversion to God? 
The Bible says, ^ By their fruits ye shall know 
14 


210 On the Banks of the River of Life ^ 

them,’ and the best fruit of regeneration is 
sanctification.” 

Oh, I see it now,” said Agnes, in a tone of 
relief and pleasure. “But I have another 
difficulty. After every conversation with you, 
and almost every Sunday when I have heard 
a particularly stirring sermon, I resolve that I 
will lead a better life. I seem, to myself, to 
be truly in earnest; but by Monday, or at 
farthest by Tuesday, I have fallen back 
again.” 

“ By the time you are as old as I am, you 
will find that good resolutions are little less 
than fallacies. They pacify the conscience, 
and help it over the ground somewhat as 
crutches help a lame man.” 

“ But the lame man gets over the ground, 
even though he has to hobble over it,” ob- 
jected Mary H. 

“But suppose he has a friend powerful 
enough, and kind enough, to carry him wher- 
ever he wants to go, is he wise in rejecting his 
aid, and in saying, ‘You may help me, but my 
crutches will help me too ? ’ ” 


“ On the Banks of the River of Life'* 2 1 1 

The girls were silent, not seeing the drift of 
the remark. 

I compare you, Agnes,” continued Miss 
Graham, “ to a lame man, who wants to get 
over a certain piece of ground, but does it 
spasmodically, and on crutches. But he falls 
back from his progress, and is continually 
starting afresh, or having new crutches made, 
and ignores the fact that if he would yield to 
the solicitations of his friend, he need never 
halt, or fall back, or need any other support.” 

Do you mean that God is such a Friend ? ” 
asked Agnes. 

‘^Yes. And if, instead of resolving to go 
on valiantly yourself, you remember that you 
have always failed and come short of your 
own best purposes, and let Him sanctify you, 
instead of trying to sanctify yourself, you will 
have learned one of the great lessons of life. 
Our sanctification is His will, and it is He who 
worketh in us to do His good pleasure.” 

“ Then I do not see that there is anything 
for us to do, but just sit and wait to see what 
God will do with us. Isn’t that fatalism ? ” 


212 On the Banks of the River of Life R 


“ Suppose you had no reason to believe that 
your soul was safe, but was, at this moment, 
liable to be forever lost, what would you do ? 

“ I would go to the Cross, and if I perished, 
perish only there,” was the vehement reply. 

And why not go to the Cross for sanctifi- 
cation, as you once did for salvation ? When 
the children of Israel were told to look at the 
brazen serpent, they were not taught that 
there was any merit in their obedience; but still, 
they were saved by faith. Now, suppose the 
next time you have a new desire for a holier 
life, instead of saying, * Well, I resolve to begin 
anew this day,’ you say, ^ Lord, I thank Thee 
for putting this desire into my heart ; it did 
not originate with me: it is Thy gift. But 
give me yet more. I can not make myself 
what I desire to be ; then condescend to make 
me such.’ ” 

For some moments no one uttered a word. 
When the Holy Spirit speaks, man keeps 
silence. And this Spirit was now brooding 
over every youthful heart, solemnizing, and 
ready to sanctify it. 


“ On the Banks of the River of LifeT 2 1 3 

“ There is another thing that puzzles me,” 
said one who had not yet spoken. It is the 
different creeds held by good people. Why 
isn’t truth made so clear that everybody will 
see it alike? Now, I have an aunt who says 
she knows she is old-fashioned, but that she 
believes nobody is made holy except through 
tribulation. She has had a great deal of trouble 
herself, and says she thanks God for it, every 
day, because it explains life to her. But when 
she talks that way, I shrink back, and feel that 
I never could bear such afflictions as she has 
had. Then my mother never says much about 
trials. She is one of the sunshiny sort, always 
comfortable and pleasant. I don’t see but 
she is as good as my aunt, but she has never 
had things go wrong with her. She says the 
good things of life were given us for our en- 
joyment, and that we honor God by enjoying 
them.” 

^^So we may and do, as long as He gives 
them. But they are to be enjoyed in moder- 
ation. As long as we are rich and increased 
in goods, we are tempted to rest in them, and 


214 the Banks of the River of Life B 

to seek nothing higher. But God leads His 
children in varied ways. He sees that one 
will not come to Him till He has taken away 
everything in which he delights. He shows 
His love, then, by taking away or marring the 
idols that would otherwise ruin the soul, and 
in this He does well. 

“ He has another child whom His gifts draw 
nearer to Himself in love and gratitude ; 
therefore He can afford to treat him with lav- 
ish indulgence.” 

But these people who claim that they grow 
perfect in a minute ; what do you think of 
them. Miss Graham?” 

I know of no persons who make such pro- 
fessions,” was the reply. 

Several voices eagerly assured her that they 
did. 

We will not judge them,” said Miss Gra- 
ham. “ If they have had an experience that 
we have not, we are not in a position to con- 
demn it, for we know not of what we speak. 
But of one thing we may be sure : God just 
as seriously calls us to holiness as He does to 


*^ 0 n the Banks of the River of Life^ 2 1 5 

regeneration. He does it in His Word, He 
does it by His providences, He does it by 
His Holy Spirit. And the result is that a 
great many of His children are longing to 
respond to His claims, and a great many 
others are preaching and praying and writing 
books and tracts and letters, instructing those 
who are seeking righteousness in what they 
consider the right way. But these human 
guides are all fallible. God’s secret remains 
with Himself. But He will reveal it to all who 
ask in faith. My own opinion — I give it for what 
it is worth — is, that while we are led by the 
Spirit of God, it is by diversities of operation.” 

But wouldn’t it be delightful,” said Agnes, 
to be made holy at once, instead of living a 
whole life-time of conflict and dismay. For 
my part, I feel as if I could not wait another 
day. I go to all the meetings where this doc- 
trine is advocated, and keep hoping that it 
will be made clearer to me. It makes me per- 
fectly miserable when I do anything wrong. 
Yes, perfectly miserable. And these people 
say there is no need of being miserable.” 


2 1 6 the Banks of the River of Life'" 

Nor do I think so, either, my dear Agnes. 
Our misery is quite as often wounded, defeat- 
ed self-love, as genuine repentance ; perhaps 
oftener. Repentance makes us leave off sin- 
ning, or when we fall into it, at once makes us 
forsake it and fly in humble confession to the 
cross.” 

But some people claim to have made such 
attainments in grace that they never sin.” 

“ I do not like that word attainments. It 
sounds as if a Christian could lay up a stock 
of grace to which he could resort in an emer- 
gency and supply himself at pleasure. But the 
truth is, we are all want and weakness ; God is 
all grace and strength. We can, of ourselves, 
do nothing aright. ‘ As the eyes of a maiden 
look unto the hand of her mistress,’ so must 
our eyes be continually turned to Christ. And 
He is our peace. No one who possesses Him 
ought to be miserable ! ” 

Not if he is living in sin ? ” 

“ He who possesses Christ does not live in 
sin. His sinful nature remains, but the in- 
dwelling Christ controls it just in proportion 
to the hold He has there.” 


the Banks of the River of Life f 217 

But I often get angry,” objected Agnes, 
“ and I see good people guilty of such faults 
everyday. Is there no remedy? Must it al- 
ways go on so ? ” 

There is a remedy, and that is Christ. 
The more perfectly He dwells in the soul by 
faith, the more §in will be crowded out by 
His divine presence. Try it, my dear girls. 
Let Him come and take up His abode in you, 
and then see how peaceful, how happy you 
will be ! ” 

“ I will try it ! ” said Agnes, fervently. 

‘‘And so will I! so will I!”. added other 
voices. 

“ Miss Graham, are you sure this blessing is 
for everybody?” asked one, more timid than 
the rest. “ I have desired it above everything 
else on earth ; have desired to be wholly the 
Lord’s, but I am not.” 

“ Let me read to you what I believe to be 
the truth,” said Miss Graham, taking a book 
from her table, “ and you will perhaps find en- 
couragement in these earnest words : 

“ ‘ You may now understand when it is that 


2i8 *’'‘0n the Banks of the River of Life'* 

you may regard yourself as standing upon the 
very banks of the river of life, when God is 
about to become the everlasting light of your 
soul. It is when, and only when, you have 
such a quenchless thirst for God, for holiness 
and the indwelling of the presence of Christ 
in your heart, that nothing else will satisfy 
you or divert your thoughts or desire from 
this one infinite good, and when your whole 
being is centered in the immutable purpose 
to attain it. Are you in this state? Then 
lift up your head ; your redemption draweth 
nigh.’” 

Miss Graham closed and laid aside the book, 
and for a time nothing was heard but the ticking 
of the clock and the far-off sounds of city life. 
The ardent, impetuous Agnes was at length 
the first to speak. 

Miss Graham,” she said, “ do you believe 
anybody on earth feels that way ? ” 

<< I know that many do,” was the reply. 

“ And how did they get there ? ” 

“ Some by one path, and some by another ; 
but of each individual soul it may be said. 


the Banks of the River of Life^ 2 1 9 

‘ Behold he prayeth.’ God gives us the spirit- 
ual gifts we ask for, and we certainly may ask 
Him to enlarge our desires and to intensify 
our longings after Himself. I will not say 
that He calls every soul to such an experience 
as that I have just read to you, but J do say 
that He calls each of you to it through me. 
He has committed the care of your souls in 
a great degree to me ; I have prayed for you 
each, by name, day after day, year after year. 
I may not live to see these prayers answered, 
but I believe that each of you will become, 
sooner or later, wholly consecrated to God.” 

“ I hope so, I hope so,” said Agnes ; “ but yet 
I almost dread it. I see so many things God 
will have to take away first. And I do cling 
so to those I love ! ” 

‘‘He always gives a great deal more than 
He takes away. Try to trust Him, dear child.” 

“ I do trust Him to a degree ; but it is so 
much easier to love friends whose words and 
looks and tones assure us of their affection, 
than an invisible Being about whose friendship 
one’s imperfections make one doubt.” 


220 the Banks of the River of Lifef 

“Yet here is the voice of experience,” said 
Miss Graham ; “ the testimony of one who 
has found in God the near and personal 
Friend she needs : 

“ ‘ So near, so very near to God, 

Nearer I can not be, 

For in the person of His Son 
I am as near as He. 

So dear, so very dear to God, 

Dearer I can not be ; 

The love with which He loves His Son, 

Such is His love for me.' 

“ Surely to attain such a sense of nearness 
and dearness to God, it is worth while to give 
up every earthly idol.” 

“ I hope He will help me do it ! ” was the 
aspiration of each heart, as the little group 
now broke up, and fathers and brothers came 
to escort their dear ones home. 

And as long as they lived they never forgot 
that evening and the prophetic words of their 
beloved friend. For they were her last words 
to them on earth. A few days later a brief 
illness became the messenger to call her home 
to her reward ; they caught her mantle as it 


**0n the Banks of the River of Lifef 22 1 

fell, and now, scattered up and down in our 
own and in foreign lands, as wives, as mothers, 
as missionaries, twelve devoted women are 
living saintly lives, and knowing, in their own 
blessed experience, what is that “ peace of 
God that passeth all understanding.’* Could 
life give more ? 


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I 




A MODEL SERVANT. 


W HEN I was a stripling,” said an old 
man to a company of young peo- 
ple, was visiting a friend. After a few 
days I said to him, ^ Everything in this house 
seems to go on like clock-work, and you are, 
apparently, free from care. How is it ? ’ 

“ He replied, ‘ Have I never spoken to you 
of my faithful servant Job?* 

‘ Never.’ 

“ ‘ Then I must do so now. I picked him 
up at a street corner. He was a miserable ob- 
ject, all rags and squalor. I pitied him, and 
asked him why he was lounging there, instead 
of going to work and making a man of him- 
self ? He replied that he could not get work, 
that he had no home, and that mine was the 

first kind word he had ever heard. This 

(223) 


224 


A Model Servant. 


moved my compassion yet more. I said to 
him : 

“ ^ Have you ever been at service ? ’ 

“He hung his head and replied, *Yes, I 
have served a hard master all my life. He 
promised me good wages and kind treatment. 
But he never gave me either ; and at last I 
left him. But in my ragged, filthy state no 
one will give me work, and I am perishing 
with hunger and cold.’ 

“ My heart yearned over him, and I told 
him so. Then I said, ‘ Suppose I take you in- 
to my house, clothe and feed you, and give 
you good wages, will you serve me faithfully? ’ 
“He said, ‘ I am a miserable, good-for- 
nothing fellow; I don’t dare to make any 
promises. Will you try me ? ’ 

“ So, with tears in his eyes, he followed me 
home. I took off his rags, clothed him afresh, 
and set him to work. He had been serving a 
bad master so long, that at first I had to watch 
him closely to see if evil habits did not still 
cling to him. And he was at that time awk- 
ward and inexperienced, and made frequent 


A Model Servant. 


225 


mistakes. But every morning he came to me 
to beg for minute directions about the day’s 
work ; every night he confessed any fault or 
failure of which he had been guilty, and en- 
treated forgiveness. And when most busy 
about his tasks, if he caught my eye, he in- 
variably gave me a look that said he loved the 
labor for the master’s sake.” 

‘‘He was probably one of your active sort, 
who are never so happy as when hard at 
work.” 

“Not at all. He was naturally indolent.” 

“ He was found of money, then.” 

“ Not at all. He refused to take any wages 
beyond what was needed for his support. 
And as he became more and more valuable, 
he was sought by unscrupulous persons, who 
would fain have his services at any price. But 
he steadily refused them all.” 

“ Excuse the query : do you not find it 
necessary to keep your peculiar hold upon him 
by flattery ? ” 

“ I am glad you asked that question. I re- 
ply, emphatically. No. From the outset I 
IS 


226 


A Model Servant. 


have loved, but never spared him. I have en- 
larged on his mistakes, reproved his faults." 

“ Oh, you allow that he has faults, then ? " 
Certainly. He is a human being. But for 
many years he has never willfully done any- 
thing amiss. My word is law to him. No 
matter how distasteful the service I require, 
he always renders it cheerfully. I have other 
good servants, as servants go ; but they all 
like to have their own way, and when they can 
secure it undetected, they do. But my faith- 
ful Job’s will is to do mine. And finding him 
thus faithful in the menial tasks to which I at 
first appointed him, I have gradually promoted 
him to be ruler over a large portion of my es- 
tates." 

‘‘ Does not this excite the envy of his fel- 
low-servants ? " 

Of course it has. But that evil is incident 
to every earthly position of trust and honor, 
and it will not hurt him to be thus continually 
reminded that he is living in a world where 
the evil spirit ever dogs the footsteps of the 
gopd angel." 


A Model Servant. 


227 

“ Does his elevation never fill him with con- 
ceit ? " 

I have seen, with regret, that at times this 
dangerous temper did beset him. Being as- 
sured so often by different members of my 
family that he is beloved and cherished and 
trusted to a marvelous degree, he gets a fleet- 
ing notion that on the whole he is a model 
man. At such moments, however, I have 
only to point out the exceeding unloveliness of 
this self-consciousness and self-applause, to 
bring him down into the dust. Once or twice 
I have reminded him of what he was in igno- 
rance and worthlessness and rags before this 
bouse became his home. This quickly brought 
penitent tears to his eyes ; and now he often 
comes, to me and begs me not* to spare him if 
I see him unduly exalted, but to humble him 
by putting him into a lower position. . Only 
yesterday he said to me, ^ Smite me, it shall 
be a kindness ! ’ ” 

''You think, then, that he is not working 
with such scrupulous fidelity to win the favor 
and approbation of lookers-on, but out of sim- 
ple love and gratitude to you ? ” 


228 


A Model Servant, 


‘‘Undoubtedly. Since he entered my fam- 
ily, we have had a great deal of sickness. 
Now after his hard day’s work — for I acknowl- 
edge that I keep him busy through every 
working hour — he might naturally say, ‘ I am 
not living here as nurse, and am entitled to 
my night’s rest.’ On the contrary, he will not 
sleep while another wakes. Without ostenta- 
tion, and as if it were a matter of course, he 
watches by every sick-bed in pure self-forget- 
fulness. This is literally a service of love ; no 
money can pay for it.” 

“ That is true. How long has he been with 
you?” 

“ Many years. I really think he makes no 
distinction between his interests and my own. 
All he wants to make him happy is something 
to do for me or mine. And his love for my 
children is only secondary to his love for me. 
The younger ones have trespassed on this 
sentiment, and at times made a perfect slave 
of him.” 

“Do you feel justified in keeping such a 
treasure all to yourself ? Is he not above his 


A Model Servant. 


229 

position? Ought he not to fill some high, 
public office ? 

“ He has had such offered him. He could 
have more ease and leisure, far more human 
applause, should he accept offices almost thrust 
upon him. At one time the temptation was 
very great. He laid the case before me, and 
asked me to decide for him. But I did not 
give free expression to my opinion. I wanted 
him to act as a free agent. I felt that he was 
worthy of all that was offered him, but that 
an elevated position would bring with it new 
and powerful temptations. At last he came 
to me and said that he would rather fill a lit- 
tle space near, than a large one remote from 
me, and must stay where he was."' 

^‘That must have touched you.'^ 

“ It touched, but did not surprise me. It 
was like the man.” 

“ What would be the effect upon him, should 
you, arbitrarily, as it would seem, reduce him 
to the menial position he occupied at first ? ” 

“ When I took him into my service, my de- 
sign was not merely to secure my own com- 


230 


A Model Servant. 


fort. I loved him, and wanted to make a true 
man of him. To this end I kept him under 
discipline. Sometimes I made of him a mere 
household drudge, as if that were all he was 
fit for. Then I would exalt him and set him 
above his fellows. He would look surprised, 
perhaps, but never displeased, when abased ; 
and as I have said before, I never saw any 
elation that was not transient.” 

All this interested me, and I determined 

to watch this remarkable man, of whom it 

might be asked, Hast thou considered my 

servant Job, that there is none like him in the 

earth, a perfect and an upright man, that es- 

cheweth evil ? ” The first thing I observed 

was a constant study of his master’s face, as if 

he would read there the wish not yet ex- 

\ 

pressed. This seemed to have become such a 
habit as to be like a second nature. And this 
was no youthful infatuation, for he was now 
past his prime, almost an old man. Every 
look, every act, said plainly, I belong, not to 
myself, but to my master ; my time, my 
strength are his.” Then when an order was 


A Model Servant. 


231 


given, he obeyed promptly, yet without servil- 
ity. There was nobility in his very subservi- 
ence, for he rendered service freely and with 
a cheerful whole-heartedness that was pleasant 
to behold. 

Again I noticed his reverent .demeanor to 
the visitors of the house. When I entered the 
room set apart for his use, where he retired to ^ 
attend to the business devolving on him when 
other household tasks were finished, he rose 
from his desk and stood respectfully before 
me as he did before his master. 

I said to him, Keep your seat. Job, I have 
only come to ask a question or two.” 

He replied, gently, but decidedly, I stand 
before my master’s guest.” 

“ But you are a good deal older than I, and 
besides I am interrupting you.” 

‘‘ My master’s guest has a right to interrupt 
me,” he returned. But as I turned to go, he 
eagerly pursued his work with the old air of 
I am not my own.” 

A little later some one spoke slightingly of 
his master. It touched him to the quick, and 


232 A Model Servant, 

he reproved the speaker with dignity and pro- 
priety, but with a good deal of spirit. Yet 
when himself reproved, he bore the rebuke in 
silence, making no attempt to defend himself. 

How is this. Job?” I asked; ^^can you 
bear to be reviled yourself, while you can 
not bear to hear a slighting word about your 
master ? ” 

He looked at me in surprise. 

Perhaps you do not know how good he is,” 
he said ; and after a pause, how bad I was 
when he took me in.” 

I was struck, too, with his fidelity in little 
things, though entrusted with the charge of 
great ones. Everything was done thoroughly 
and done at the right time. There was no pro- 
crastination, no idling, no putting his own duty 
on another man’s shoulders. And when per- 
forming a homely task he sang cheerily at his 
work, just as he did when nobler ones were 
assigned him. 

I heard it said to him, Job, you are lay- 
ing up nothing against your old age. How is 
that?” 


A Model Servant. 


233 


“You don’t know my master! If you 
did, you would not ask such a question,” he 
cried. 

“He certainly makes you work very hard 
for very poor wages.” 

“He does not make me work. I work of 
my own free will. And I have wages that you 
know not of.” 

“ But you are fitted for a position of high 
trust and usefulness. Why does he not give 
you one ? ” 

“He gives me just what is best for me, and 
I like it because he gives it. I had rather work 
hard for him and with him in a garret, than 
have all the world can give in a palace without 
him.” 

“You are a foolish enthusiast. What has 
your master done that you should forsake 
all else and cleave only to him ? ” 

“ Don’t you know ? Then let me tell you. 
I was bound to a bad master, and the first 
thing I can remember was trying to do all he 
bid me do, and always getting into mischief 
and trouble by it. He was a hard master, and 


234 


A Model Servant, 


do what I could, there was no pleasing him. 
He fed me on husks and clothed me with rags. 
He made me swear and lie and steal. He 
was always making promises and always break- 
ing them. I got so that I was little better 
than a beast, ignorant, foolish, filthy, so that 
no decent person would take me into his house. 
And one day I was standing in the street, 
wretched and lonely, everybody treating me 
as if I had the leprosy, and a man came along 
and gave me a look of love and pityl Yes, 
you may well wonder. I never expect to stop 
wondering if I live forever. And he took me 
home with him just as I was, washed me, 
clothed me, fed me, and gave me what little 
work my awkward hands could do. I was 
lazy and did as little as I possibly could, and 
that only when I knew he was watching me. 
I wasted his time and wasted his food, and 
when he put work on me I did not like, I 
complained. And when he invited guests to 
the house whom I had to wait on, I was secret- 
ly ungracious to them, not realizing that car- 
ing for them was caring for him. But I loved 


A Model Servant. 


235 


him, and, stranger still, he loved me, and was 
never impatient with me, but bore with all my 
faults, encouraging me to think I should some 
time get rid of them. The more I saw of 
him, the more I saw how good he was, and 
the faint little love I had at first began to 
grow into a great fire, that ate up my old, 
hateful ways. Once I got sick by giving way 
to my greedy appetite, and he took care of 
me just as if I had been one of his own chil- 
dren. Another time I was in great trouble ; 
we poor folks have got hearts just like yours, 
and they can ache just as hard. I was a young 
fellow then, and I loved a girl, and she died. 
Some of my fellow-servants laughed at me for 
making such an ado. But my master came 
all the way up four flights of stairs and said, 
‘Job, my poor fellow, this is very hard for 
you. I am sorry for you. Ciy^ away, it will 
do you good. And you know I shall always 
be a true and faithful friend to you.’ I thought 
I knew him before that, but I didn’t. My 
mind was so distracted with my trouble that 
I neglected my work, and blundered over it, 


236 


A Model Servant, 


but he never reproached me once, but kept 
right on pitying me and giving me kind, ten- 
der looks that melted me all down. Since then 
it has been easy to work for him ; all I wish 
is that I had ten hands and ten feet, and could 
do ten times as much for him as I do now.’’ 

Still, you are nothing but a servant, and 
in all these years you have been preparing for 
something higher.” 

“ I reckon I shall get higher when the time 
comes, but it hasn’t come yet, for my master 
has never said, ‘Job, go up higher.’ He’s 
always said, ^ Go if you think best, but it’s safer 
to obey than to govern,’ and ‘ he that is low 
need fear no fall.’ ” 

While we listened and marveled, this be- 
loved servant was suddenly stricken down. 
His faithful feet would no longer bear him to 
the post of duty ; his busy hands were para- 
lyzed and helpless. At first his uselessness 
tried him sorely. His intense love for his 
master had not nearly spent itself ; he longed 
for work, more work, and lay and thought of 
a thousand things he fancied he might have 


A Model Servant. 


237 

done. He groaned aloud, and bemoaned him- 
self on his bed. 

At last his mast^ said to him, “Job, you 
have often been called to come up higher, and 
now you have come. Suffering is a nobler 
vocation than work, when one is ordained to 
it. I utter no complaint that you can no 
longer serve me ; if you lie here in silent pa- 
tience, not complaining that you can not do 
the work I do not require, you are still doing 
my good pleasure. I did not take you into 
my house in order to get all I could out of 
you ; I gave you work to do that would check 
your slothfulness, develop your fidelity, and be 
the channel in which your love could safely 
flow. Suffering is your servitude now; it is 
your master, and you owe to it the humble 
obedience you have hitherto rendered me. 
I want nothing better than to see you as 
faithful to its claims as you have been to 
mine." 

“ I will be faithful," murmured the trem- 
bling lips. “And, master, if I can’t work for 
you, I can love you, and so I will ! " 


238 


A Model Servant, 


All this happened, as I have said, in the 
days of my youth, and ever since I have been 
seriously pondering the question. Am I such 
a servant to my Master ? 


PLAYING WITH SUNBEAMS. 


HERE is a story told of a little child sit- 



ting on its nursery floor, playing with a 
sunbeam that lay athwart the carpet. Now 
he would try to catch it in his fingers, and 
laugh merrily at each failure; now he would 
bathe his little hands in its warmth and bright- 
ness, and then clasp them for joy. 

Now we meet, 'sometimes, though not often, 
with charming grown-up children, who can be 
happy in the enjoyment of the intangible, 
when the tangible is wanting. They are. the 
opposites of those characters of whom it has 
been said, that it takes more than everything 
to make them happy, less than nothing to 
make them miserable. 

Mary Arnold had grown up in an unusually 
happy home ; she never remembered hearing 
an unkindly word there. 


(239) 


240 Playing with Sunbeams. 

From this home she passed, when quite 
young, into one of her own, which promised 
her all the luxuries to which she had been ac- 
customed. But her husband met with heavy 
losses just as he had won his bride, and she 
was obliged to live in an humble style hitherto 
unknown to her. He thought he knew what 
a sweet spirit she possessed, when the day of 
prosperity shone for her without a cloud. 
But he was astonished and cheered when ad- 
versity revealed her true character. 

“ It is going to be very hard for you, my 
poor child,” he said to her, “ to descend with 
me into all sorts of petty economies, to which 
you have never been used. This is the trying 
part of these financial difficulties; I do not 
care so much for myself.” 

“We shall see,” she returned, with a smile. 

“ It is easy to smile in advance,” he said, in 
reply to the smile. “ But you do not know 
what it is going to be to you.” 

It is true, she did not know. She had now 
to do with her own hands, what she had had 
other hands to do for her ; must make a very 


Play mg with Sunbeams. 241 

little money go a great way ; must do without 
luxuries ; in short, must have that grim and 
unpleasing master, Economy, sit with her at 
her table, reign in her kitchen, preside over 
her wardrobe, and become general Master of 
Ceremonies. But her friends found her un- 
changed by circumstances. When they con- 
doled with her, she would reply : 

‘‘ But think what a kind husband I have ! ” 

And she played with this sunbeam, and 
made herself glad with it, and was so genuine- 
ly happy, that it was a refreshment to meet 
her. 

“ But it will not last,” said the ravens. By 
and by, when she has children, and must 
clothe and feed and educate them, we shall 
have a new tune.” 

Well, the children came, and she had not a 
moment of leisure. She had to be nurse and 
seamstress, never got “ her afternoon out,” 
never had her work all done and out of the 
way; she was industrious, and arranged her 
time wisely ; but she could not work miracles. 
She felt, a great deal of the time, like a straw 
16 


242 Playing with Sunbeams, 

borne hither and thither by the wind; she 
could not choose what she would do at such a 
time, but was forced to tasks, with no room 
for her own volition. 

^‘Now, then,” quoth the ravens, ‘‘we shall 
hear you complain. You have to work like a 
day-laborer, and see what miserable wages you 
get!” 

“ Miserable wages ! ” she cried, “ why, I don't 
know anybody so rich as I am. With such a 
husband, and such children, and such friends, 
I am as happy as the day is long! ” 

“You have a great deal of leisure for your 
friends, to be sure.” 

“Well, I should VCeis. to see more of them, it 
is true. And, by and by, when the children 
are older, I shall.” 

“ By that time you will be so old yourself, 
that your heart will have grown cold.” 

“ Oh, no ; it is too busy to grow cold.” 

So she made sunbeams out of her daily, 
homespun tasks, and went on her way, rejoic- 
ing. 

The ravens were puzzled. 


Playing with Sunbeams, 


243 


“ It must be her perfect health,” they whis- 
pered to each other. 

Time passed ; the children grew up, and 
just as the long-needed prosperity began to 
flow into the house, the young people began 
to pass out of it into homes of their own, till 
father and mother sat at their table alone. 

“ Now you have spent nearly a life-time in 
toiling for your children, and what is the good 
of it all ? As soon as they get old enough to 
be a comfort to you, they every one of them 
go off and leave you.” 

So said the ravens. 

J ust what I did at their age ! ” she replied, 
cheerily. “ Why shouldn’t they get married, 
as well as I ? And instead of losing, I have 
gained children. Whereas I had only six, I 
have now twelve. And I have plenty of time 
now to see my friends, to read, to take jour- 
neys, and to enjoy my husband.” 

But now long, long days of ill-health came 
and laid leaden hands upon her. She had 
twelve children, but they were scattered far 
and wide, and could only come occasionally, 
to make her brief visits. 


244 Playing with Sunbeams, 

‘‘Very hard ! ” said the ravens. 

“ Oh, no ! It is such a delight to me that 
they all got away before this illness overtook 
me. It would have cast such a gloom upon 
them to be at home and miss ‘ mother ’ from 
the table.” 

“ But the time is so long ! What a sad pity 
that you are not allowed to use your eyes ! ” 

“ Oh, do you think so ? I was just thank- 
ing God that in my days of youth and health,. 
I learned so many passages in the Bible, and 
so many hymns. I lie here repeating them 
over, and they are like honey to my taste.” 

“At all events, it would be a good thing if 
you could see your friends more.” 

“ I do see them, in imagination. I call in 
now this one, now that ; and make him or her 
repeat the pleasant, affectionate words they 
used to speak. I am never lonely. And I 
have other delightful things to think of ; books 
I have read, sermons I have heard, little kind- 
nesses shown me by some who are in heaven 
now. Sometimes I wonder why, when others 
are so afflicted, I am passed by.” 


/ 


Playing with Sunbeams, 245 

“ Have you forgotten that you have wept 
over little graves ? ” 

“ No ; I have not forgotten. I lie and think 
of all the winsome ways my little ones had, 
and how tenderly the Good Shepherd took 
them away in His arms. They might have 
lived to suffer, or what is far, far worse, to sin. 
I can’t help rejoicing that three of my children 
are safe and happy. So many parents have 
ungrateful, wild sons, and foolish, worldly 
daughters.” 

Is it no trial to lie here, bound, as it were, 
hand and foot, and often racked with pain ? ” 

‘‘ It would be a great trial if I had not such 
a devoted husband, and if he were not able to 
get for me everything that can alleviate my 
condition. But you see I have not a wish un- 
gratified. Think what a delightful room this 
is ! In the summer-time, when the windows 
are open, I can hear the birds sing, and the 
voices of little children at their play. In the 
winter the sun shines in ; that che-ers me.” 

The sun doesn’t shine every day.” 

No ; and that is a mercy, because it is so 


246 Playing with Sunbeams, ^ 

welcome after absence. On cloudy days I 
think over the sunny ones, and remind myself 
that clouds never last forever. It is said that 
‘ the saddest birds find time to sing,’ and it’s 
true. Nobody is sad all the time, or suffering 
all the time.” 

“You are in the prime of life; others of 
your age are at work in the Master’s vineyard. 
Doesn’t it pain you that you are doing nothing 
for Him?” 

“ It did, at one time. I said, all I’m good 
for is to make trouble for other people, and 
use up my husband’s money. But it was 
made plain to me that ‘ they also serve who 
only stand and wait.’ It might be nothing 
but a cold, flat stone in a sidewalk, made to be 
trodden on, and fit for nothing else. But if 
the Master’s hand put me there, I ought not 
to complain that He did not let me form a 
part of a palace instead. We can’t all be 
servants ; some of us have got to be served ; 
and I am one of them.” 

“ Do you expect to get well ? ” 

“ My physicians do not tell me what to ex- 


Playing with Sunbeams, 247 

pect. I know that I may live many years ; 
but I also know that I may be called away at 
any moment.” 

How dreadful ! Such a life of suspense ! ” 
“ I am quite used to it now. At first, I did 
not know how to act when I found I might 
die at any moment. But afterwards I reflected 
that this is true of every human being. I do 
not expect to do anything it would not be fit- 
ting to do, just when the summons came. 
And it is very sweet to think that I may get 
my invitation and go, without the grief and 
commotion my death would have occasioned 
when my children were all young and needed 
me.” 

But your husband — could you bear to go 
and leave him alone ? ” 

“ My husband is older than I, and I hope 
he may go first. God has always been so good 
to us, that I think he will.” 

“ But you could not do without him. You 
would be left entirely alone.” 

^‘Yes. But whenever my heart ached, I 
could remind myself that it was my heart, not 


248 Playing with Sunbeams, 

his, and rejoice that he was spared this suffer- 
ing. You see, everything has its good side.” 

By this time the ravens were exhausted, and 
flew away. 

And now let us see whether this faithful 
sufferer was doing no work in the great vine- 
yard. 

Here are six homes where she is quoted 
every day, almost every hour. Her children 
have all learned her song as she used to sing 
it to them in their nest, and they are teaching 
it to theirs. Cheerful endurance lights up and 
beautifies every life. And the influences go- 
ing forth from these lives are beyond compu- 
tation. And here are friends who love her 
only less than her husband and children do ; 
who have watched her all her life long, and 
have borne the burden and heat of the day, in 
humble imitation of the patience with which 
she bore hers. They have never heard a mur- 
muring word fall from her lips. They have 
always heard her wonder what made God so 
good to her ; wonder that, full of discipline as 
her life was, she had so few troubles. And 


Playing with Sunbeams. 249 

they have gone away rebuked, with lessons 
impressed on their memories that should bear 
fruit she might never see, but should be re- 
freshing in every weary day. And those who 
were with her when death stole away three 
cherubs from her heart, knew that it was not 
stoicism that made her refuse to complain, but 
thank God that she had had them for a season, 
enjoyed them while they were hers, and could 
feel that they were safer, happier with Him 
than they were with her. Yes, when she wept 
over the little graves, she caught sunbeams 
even then, and said, ‘‘Though He slay me, yet 
will I trust in Him ! ” 

The truth is, our own hands have more to 
do with shaping our lives than we fancy. We 
can not control Providences, nor ought we to 
wish to do so. But we can be willing to see the 
silver lining to the cloud, to “ nurse the caged 
sorrow till the captive sings,” to count up our 
mercies through those dark days when the rain 
falls and is never weary, knowing that it never 
rains always. 

And now let us go back to the sick-room, 


250 Playing with Sunbeams. 

which, to its patient occupant, has so long 
been a prison. 

She has grown old and her strength has 
greatly declined. She can not talk much now, 
and no longer hears earthly voices. But she 
knows what our eyes say to her when our 
tongues are silent. 

“Yes, I knew you would come to me as 
soon as you heard of it ; so kind of you. 
Everybody is kind. I wish I had strength to 
tell you all about it. We had lived together 
fifty years. He died on our Golden Wedding 
day. He had been unusually well, and we 
had laughed together over our young married 
life. The children were all here with their 
children ; the house was like a beehive, every 
bee humming. He said it renewed his youth 
to see them; I’m sure it did mine. Well, 
they all assembled here in this room, and the 
children gave us their presents. Their father 
told them all about our wedding day so long 
ago, and every time he stopped talking, to rest 
a little, I said, ^ Every mile-stone on our jour- 
ney marks a mercy ; there’s a new one. And 


Playing with Sunbeams. 251 

it will be so to the end/ Father smiled ; for 
you know I couldn’t hear a word he said, but I 
always did say I had mercies when other peo- 
ple had miseries. At last he had said all he 
had to say, and Robert — ^you know my Robert 
is a minister? — Robert knelt down, with his 
brothers and sisters and the children about 
him, to pray. Father knelt just here by my 
side, with my hand in his. It was a solemn 
time. I was with them in spirit, though I 
could not hear. But when they rose from 
their knees, father kept on his. We waited a 
little while, and then Robert and Edgar went 
and lifted him up. Well, I thought it would be 
thus ! God was always so good to us ; he’d slip- 
ped away so gently that nobody heard him go. 

Don’t grieve for me. The parting will not 
be for long. My old feet will soon go totter- 
ing after. God is keeping me here a little 
longer to give me time to tell my friends all 
about this crowning mercy, and then I shall 
go. It has been a great shaking ; but I think 
I could hardly have borne to go and leave him 
alone.” 


252 Playing with Sunbeams. 

As she falters forth these words, slowly and 
at intervals, her children and a few dear friends 
standing about her watching the smile that 
mingles with her tears ; a sunbeam darted sud- 
denly into the room and lay, a line of golden 
light, across the bed. She laid her cold hands 
in it, in the tender way in which she would 
clasp that of a friend, and said. 

I’ve had nothing but mercies all the days 
of my life.” 

And so she passed painlessly away, playing 
with sunbeams ” to the last. 


SAVED FROM HIS FRIENDS. 


I N traveling the streets of a great city like 
our own, how often our silent thoughts 
busy themselves with the throngs we meet, or 
rather, with the individuals who make the 
multitude. “ Have all these human beings 
homes ? ” we ask. ** Is it possible that this re- 
pulsive-looking object is a man, has friends, is 
beloved ? And this vapid, simpering woman — 
is she, perchance a wife, a mother ; has she a 
husband who cherishes her, children who obey 
and honor her?” Judged by the common 
eye, we should say of most of the human be- 
ings we meet, How uninteresting they are ! ” 
Yet there are few who are not interesting to 
somebody. God has set the solitary in fami- 
lies,” and in these contracted circles, at least, 
there is shelter from the harsh opinions of the 
world without. Does it turn to a man its cold 

(253) 


254 Saved from his Friends, 

shoulder? “Well,” he retorts, “my mother, 
my sister, my wife, think well of me, nay, love 
me, and I can do without the rest.” This is the 
bright side of the question, a merciful side, if 
it is not abused. But it has its dangers. Take 
any of us who are luxuriating in the sweet at- 
mosphere of a happy home, where our faults 
are dealt with gently, and our virtues magni- 
fied by partial affection, and we are liable to 
a subtle self-complacency which is abhorrent 
to God, as it would be to man could he see it. 
It sounds nicely to say of ourselves that we 
don’t know what we have done to deserve the 
friendship of those we love, and we fancy our- 
selves sincere in saying it. But the moment one 
of these very friends begins to neglect us, or to 
accuse us, we are deeply wounded, and, in- 
stead of asking ourselves whether there may 
not be some reason for the change, some just 
ground for the accusation, we cry, “You mis- 
understand me ! ” In other words, we declare, 
“You insinuate that I am avaricious, but I 
am really very generous. You say that I am 
not conscientious, whereas I am conscientious- 


Saved from his Friends. 255 

ness personified ! ” And so on to the end of 
the chapter. 

At first blush it would seem thkt mutual 
admiration societies ’’ were so little the rule, 
so much the exception, that neither sermon 
nor essay warning against conceit born of and 
nursed at home could be worthy the utterance. 
But do we not all know such homes ? If they 
are weak, they are amiable in their weakness ; 
why not let them alone, then, and spend one’s 
strength in fighting against greater domestic 
evils ? Simply because there is a time for all 
things, and that on a certain time, not a hun- 
dred years ago’, there entered into a house al- 
ready full of daughters, a long-coveted son. 
In the little circle that now clustered about 
him he seemed nothing less than the ninth 
wonder of the world. Not only did his parents 
regard him with the peculiar pride and pleas- 
ure that come of hope long deferred, but every 
one of his sisters, each after her kind, fell 
down before and worshiped him. All his 
juvenile words and deeds were chronicled, and 
as infancy lapsed into boyhood, and boyhood 


256 Saved from his Friends. 

into manhood, he became the household star, 
around which the whole family revolved. Up 
to a certain point it is a good thing for a child, 
it is good for a man, to be loved and caressed ; 
but there are limits to everything. Donald 
Donaldson was not, naturally, more conceited 
than the rest of the race ; but hearing himself 
constantly eulogized, finding himself the ob- 
ject of constant rivalry, each wanting his at- 
tentions and his affections, he began, by slow 
degrees, to imagine himself the very rare speci- 
men of humanity he was believed to be. In 
fact, he was not absolutely common. He had 
some brilliant talents, could think well, talk 
well, and write well ; he was industrious, and 
made a good use of his opportunities; and 
there seemed no reason why he should not 
make his mark in this world. His sisters took 
surreptitious copies of his poems, which they 
read, in secret triumph, to all their bosom 
friends, who, being friends, thought them very 
wonderful productions, and begged for the 
privilege of taking copies likewise. Then 
each of these admirers wanted his photograph, 


Saved from his Friends, 257 

and with an air of meek reluctance he presented 
them right and left, unconscious of the satis- 
fied pride with which he did so. Miss Araminta 
Fielding wanted him taken for her in the atti- 
tude she thought so becoming, namely, seated 
at his writing-table, absorbed in literary labor, 
while a background of admiring sisters, en- 
gaged in such occupations as became the in- 
ferior female sex, enlivened the scene. Miss 
Arabella Montclair preferred him reclining on 
the sofa, with a slight headache, and hovered 
over by half a dozen tender females, each 
armed with a bottle of cologne. In fact, she 
wouldn’t have minded being one of the females 
herself. , 

As to the remaining list of gentle friends, 
the reader can picture their wishes in his own 
imagination. Of course, it was an understood 
thing in the family that their hero would take 
what position in life he pleased. When, there- 
fore, his first attempt to climb the ladder failed, 
when publisher after publisher declined to ac- 
cept his first volume of poems, the whole pla- 
toon of sisters fell back in as much amazement 

17 


258 Saved from his Friends, 

as dismay. They soon, however, recovered from 
the shock, and rallied ’round him with sympa- 
thizing hearts, a holy hatred of publishers, and 
wide-open purses. Those beautiful poems 
should not be lost to the world because Ran- 
dolph said they lacked originality, and Scrib- 
ner said they wouldn’t sell, and Hurd & Hough- 
ton shook both their heads. At their own ex- 
pense, they had them printed on tinted paper, 
and, of course, each of the admiring friends 
bought a copy and induced some of their 
friends to do the same. But somehow the 
public agreed with the publishers, and the 
elaborately got-up volume fell dead. 

Donald lost some faith in himself in conse- 
quence, and was in a fair way to make his es- 
cape from the dangerous position into which 
mistaken friendship had drawn him. But 
though not in all points a weak character, he 
had one very weak point, and that was cre- 
dulity. He believed what his friends said, and 
they said that he was the genius of the family, 
and that genius was only recognized after its 
possessor had departed hence. They posted 


Saved from his Friends. 259 

him up in all the histories of tardy justice, and 
assured him that years hence his name would 
be remembered and honored. 

Of course, his matrimonial future formed an 
equally interesting subject of discussion with 
his literary career. It was assumed that if 
there was any absolutely faultless young lady 
on earth she belonged to him. 

She must be perfectly amiable, of course,’^ 
said No. One. 

*‘And bright and original and witty,” quoth 
No. Two. “ Donald never could bear a stupid 
wife.” 

‘‘And a good housekeeper,” remarked No. 
Three. 

“Of course,” responded No. Four. “And 
she must be of a yielding disposition. Dear 
Donald likes so to have his own way.” 

“Yes, and very affectionate. I never could 
endure to see him tied to a cold nature,” de- 
clared No. Five. 

“ Oh, of course, she must be all heart and 
soul!” cried No. Six, ecstatically. 

“ But prudent, and circumspect, and able to 
hold her tongue,” suggested No. Seven. 


26 o Saved from his Friends. 

“ Certainly/’ No. Eight assented ; and very 
fond of society, because Donald is so much of 
a bookworm. He would have to go out with 
her if she wanted to gt), you know.” 

“Do you think so?” demurred No. Nine. 
“ I think she ought to be domestic and stay at 
home with him.” 

“ I don’t like women who always stay at 
home,” objected No. Two. “ They stagnate 
and grow fat and stupid.” 

“ Nobody could stagnate with Donald,” said 
No. One. 

“And we had agreed to have her all heart 
and soul,” said No. Six, “and that being the 
case, how could she stagnate, how could she 
grow fat ? ” 

Between them all Donald became bewildered. 
Instead of falling in love in a good, old-fashioned 
way, he went about among young women as 
middle-aged females go among sewing-ma- 
chines. Should it be a Wheeler & Wilson, or 
a Grover & Baker, or a Finkle & Lyon ? And 
when at last — every one of his sisters dissatis- 
fied with his choice — he selected what seemed 


Saved from his Friends, 261 

to him to be the most desirable article in the 
market, what was his mortification and wrath 
to find himself flatly refused. Once more the 
sisterhood fell back in confusion, but once 
more they rallied. 

“We always said she wasn't half good enough 
for you ! ” they cried in chorus. “ She would 
never have let you say your soul was your 
own ! ” 

“We know fifty girls superior to her ! And 
to think of her refusing you when so many 
would snatch at the chance ! " 

And they gathered 'round him closer than 
ever, wrote him three-cornered notes, which he 
found under his pillow, and among his razors 
and brushes, and in all sorts of unexpected, 
unheard-of places. One inserted little tracts 
of a consolatory nature among the leaves of 
his Bible ; another illuminated texts and sus- 
pended them from the walls of his room ; yet 
a third descended to the kitchen and com- 
pounded for his broken heart all sorts of good 
things, which reached it via his stomach. As 
to his mother, she was a good, simple soul, to 


262 Saved from his Friends. 

whom her children never told their secrets, for 
the same reason that one does not try to make 
an ocean out of a tea-cup. She went on her 
way calmly, satisfied that there never was such 
a family as hers. Probably there never was, 
but that proves nothing. 

Time heals all things, and it healed Donald’s 
wounded affections to such a degree that he 
resumed his search for a perfect sewing-ma- 
chine, aided in all feminine ways by his sisters, 
who warned, who counseled, who got up ex- 
cursions and parties, went with him to the sea- 
side and into the mountains, and were, in turn, 
guide-posts, beacons and watch-fires. He wrote 
a good many verses about the forlorn state of 
his heart and fancied himself a much-injured 
man, while he was faithfully performing the 
three great conditions of healthful life — eating 
and drinking and sleeping well. But his opin- 
ion of his own worth and consequence grew 
apace ; how could it be otherwise, when every- 
thing he said was applauded, everything he 
did admired? He fell into a silly habit of 
counting up his friends and admirers, and 


Saved from his Friends. 


263 




when it occurred to him, as it sometimes did, 
that persons so remarkable as himself were apt 
to die young, and that this might be his fate, 
he felt great compassion for those who should 
be left to mourn his loss. He pictured to 
himself his dying farewell, his imposing funeral, 
the tears of the multitude who should escort 
his precious remains to the grave, till he was 
quite affected and wept over himself as chief 
mourner. But he had sense enough to keep 
all these thoughts to himself, and, as he was 
amiable, agreeable, and pleasing as son, brother, 
and friend, no one found any flaw in him, es- 
pecially the gross one of growing self-compla- 
cency. 

He was approaching his twenty-fifth year, 
when the death of his father’s elder brother 
brought into the family a number of heir- 
looms, the most prized of which were the por- 
trait of grandma Donaldson” and a quantity 
of manuscript written by that worthy dame. 
She had been dead several years, and her 
memory was cherished by her surviving rela- 
tives with veneration and pride. She had the 


264 Saved from his Friends. 

tongue of a ready speaker and the pen of a 
ready writer ; people would sit by the hour to 
hear her talk, and her children thought her a 
perfect wonder of talent and of learning. 
Nevertheless, her p^ers had never been care- 
fully read ; they were written in a very minute, 
almost illegible hand ; what was everybody’s 
business was nobody’s, and so a barrel stored 
away in the attic held the result of an indus- 
trious, energetic pen. People said, when she 
died, that her life ought to be written and her 
writings preserved. Her sons, of whom she 
had two, thought so also. But they were both 
men of business, were not cultivated, had in- 
herited none of her talents, and so, by degrees, 
she ceased to live, save in their memories. 
But now, in arranging affairs, her grandson, 
Donald, had stumbled on her long-neglected 
papers ; a bright sentence had arrested his at- 
tention, and he had brought home with him 
these hidden treasures. Of course, everybody 
wondered why nobody had attended to this 
business before, and said it was just like Don- 
ald to think of it. He thought so too, and, 


Saved from his Friends. 265 

finding himself in such favor, he coolly appro- 
priated the portrait and had it at once sus- 
pended in his own room. It was valuable as 
a picture as well as a portrait ; it represented 
a woman in the bloom of life, with a boy on 
either side, her face full of soul, of energy, of 
determination, of sound sense, yet with no 
want of feminine warmth and gentleness, and 
was withal the work of a skillful hand. 

“ How extraordinary a resemblance there is 
between Donald and grandma ! ” exclaimed 
the sisters, as soon as they saw this portrait. 

“ Yes, I am a chip of that block,’' he said to 
himself ; “ I look like her, and I am like her ; 
all I wish is that she had lived long enough — 
to see me,” he was going to add, but checked 
himself in what he fancied a spirit of deep hu- 
mility, and substituted, “ to let me see her.” 

The papers were now transported to his 
room, and he proposed to spend his winter 
evenings in reading, assorting, transcribing, 
and destroying them, as the case might be. 

The task proved an agreeable one, yet not 
of an unmixed sort. He was proud that this 


266 Saved from his Friends. 

gifted woman was his relative, but not en- 
tirely pleased to jind how much her intellect- 
ual tone was his, how similar were his mind 
and her own. She had not had one-tenth part 
of his opportunities; she had not had the 
advantage of foreign travel as he had done ; 
she had had domestic cares that would have 
consumed the time and the energies of most 
women, and yet here was all this work done, 
and done so well. 

He sat up later than usual one evening, ab- 
sorbed in reading, but the yellow and faded 
papers fell suddenly from his hand at the 
sound of a voice just above his head, in the di- 
rection of the portrait. He looked up, and 
lo ! the lips were moving, the eyes flashing — 
“grandma Donaldson” was speaking! He 
could hardly believe his senses ; but he had to 
believe them, for this is what he heard : 

“Yes, young man, it is just as you see. I 
was but a girl, younger than you are now, 
when I wrote much of what you are reading. 
I had fires to make, and rooms to sweep, and 
food to cook ; I had to bear children and guide 


Saved from his Friends. 267 

the house ; but still I read and still I wrote. 
Two or three fond friends would fain have me 
believe myself a literary marvel, to neglect my 
proper business, and get into print. But be- 
sides my uncommon sense, I had something 
far more rare, sound common sense. I said to 
myself, ^ Don’t believe a word they say. You 
are not Shakespeare, or John Bunyan, or any- 
body else, but just a girl who’s got the gift of 
the gab and likes to scribble. The instant 
minute you’re dead, they’ll hustle all you ever 
wrote into some old flour-barrel, and off it 
will go, up into the attic, and the mice will 
make nests of the paper, and there’ll be the 
end of it.’ And I wasn’t one of the kind that 
needed to be spoke to twice that way. My 
pride came right down on the spot, and never 
got up again. I didn’t have a father and mother 
that thought there never was anybody like 
me on earth, nor nine sisters to puff me up by 
bowing down to me. My mother used to say, 
when I got in a conceited fit, ^ It’s all very 
well, child; no doubt you write things that 
sound smart to us ; but we aint the world, and 


268 Saved from his Friends. 

most likely there’s thousands of people in it 
you can’t hold a candle to. But there aint 
twenty that can make as good a wife and 
mother as you can, if you’ve a mind to try.’ 
And then she’d put her arms around me and 
kiss me, to take off the edge of what she said, 
as I would do to you, if you would come near 
enough.” 

“ Do you mean,” cried Donald, with a sink- 
ing heart, that I am to apply your remarks 
personally to myself ? That my friends over- 
rate me, and that I consequently overrate my- 
self ? ” 

“That is exactly what I mean. You see, 
my boy, that the Donaldson intellect, such as 
it was, skipped over your father, and de- 
scended to you ; but after all, it was no great 
gift. You must allow that at your age I 
wrote as well as you do, but who cares for 
what I wrote? Who reads it? I am dead 
and buried and forgotten, as you will be, 
sooner or later. Perhaps some curious de- 
scendant will pore over your papers as you 
pore over mine, but it will all end in smoke, 


^ Saved from his Friends, 269 

literally in smoke ; for you will burn these 
papers, and yours shall be burned likewise.” 

“You would have me bury my talent, then, 
because I have but one ? ” 

“ Not at all ; I would have you do the very 
best you can with it, as with the good fortune 
that makes you so beloved by your family. 
Only do it in a sensible, manly way. And 
judge yourself not by the standard of a few 
partial friends, but by facts in your past his- 
tory. They would fain have you think your- 
self undervalued by the public ; but if this 
were the case, you would, by this time, have 
been engaged on some work more worthy than 
that of writing love-verses. And then, as to 
your domestic virtues, what test have they 
ever had ? Who has thwarted your will ? 
Who has met you coldly on your return home ? 
Who has refused to nurse you when your 
head ached ? Who has ever spoken a harsh 
or aggravating word to you ? Y oung man, 
you do not know yourself, and I have had 
to rise from the dead to tell you so.” 

The head of Donald Donaldson sunk lower 


2/0 Saved from his Friends^ 

and lower during the delivery of this speech. 
Its pungent truth sank into his inmost soul. 
A hundred circumstances, hitherto unnoticed, 
corroborated all he had now heard, and he 
felt himself descending from the pinnacle on 
which he had been placed, to his true level. 

A new, a tender voice now proceeded from 
the portrait. 

“ My dear boy, it would pain me to wound 
you thus, but that I feel that faithful wound- 
ing is the greatest favor that can be shown 
you. Do not be discouraged at the new view 
of yourself you have attained. You have talent, 
you are well educated, you have many good 
and agreeable qualities. But when you enter 
the eternal world, the question will not be 
asked, ‘ Didst thou shine upon earth ? Did men 
honor; did friends love thee?’ but ‘Was the 
image of the Lord Jesus found in thee? Didst 
thou live to honor Him, to love Him, to work 
for Him ? ’ Alas, many who were first shall 
be last, and last shall be first ! ” 

As the voice died away in the sweet, serious 
cadence, another fell upon his ear. 


Saved from his Friends. 271 

‘‘ I really believe, Donald, you have set up 
reading all night ; here you are, asleep in 
your chair, the gas burning, the fire out, and 
your face like that of one who had seen a 
vision.” 

Thus spake one of the sisters who had done 
so much to spoil him. He started up, rubbed 
his eyes, and cried : 

“ Was I really asleep ? Then it was all a 
dream ! ” 

What was all a dream ? ” 

“ That Grandma Donaldson read me a lect- 
ure, and then a short sermon ! I declare it 
sounded just like her! That was just the 
way she talked, as it is just the way she wrote. 
No wonder it all seemed so real. Well, you’ll 
find me henceforth a wiser, if not a sadder 
man.” 

This was all he chose to tell, but from that 
day he was indeed a wiser man, for he ceased 
to be wise in his own conceit. He performed 
the work in life that came to him humbly and 
faithfully and as to the Lord, and is doing it 
still. 


272 Saved from his Friends. 

And he has married a wife whom he dearly 
loves. 

She is not “ perfectly amiable,” nor bright, 
original, and witty,” or remarkable as a 
^‘good housekeeper,” or very “yielding,” or 
“ all heart and soul,” while, at the same time, 
“ prudent and ^circumspect, and able to hold 
her tongue,” nor “very fond of society,” and 
“ domestic,” nor has “ stagnated, or grown fat 
and stupid.” 

She is simply a nice, good sort of girl, who 
does not take fire easily, but can be roused if 
you treat her ill ; who knows it if her husband 
says witty things, and can laugh heartily at 
them ; who keeps house very comfortably ; 
yields sometimes, and sometimes won’t ; has 
got a heart and a soul, but then not a little 
humanity besides ; is prudent and imprudent 
by fits and starts ; likes to go out of an even- 
ing, and is very happy at home. Donald’s 
mother likes her, and they agree together per- 
fectly. With all the sisters she has occasional 
“ tiffs,” which do not amount to much, but 
show that they are none of them angels — ^just 


Saved from his Friends. 273 

as a blot on one’s paper proves that the most 
immaculate sheet is not above getting soiled. 
She loves Donald far better than his sisters 
do, but not blindly, as they wish she did. She 
sees all his little weaknesses, and now and 
then gets out of patience with him. And she 
will not let him litter her rgoms with his 
papers, as he was brought up to litter all his 
mother’s. But they get on beautifully to- 
gether, in the main ; he wouldn’t change her 
for any “ Wheeler & Wilson ” on earth, and 
she wouldn’t give him up to marry a king. 
And, best of all, if she does not help him in 
his work, she never hinders him by any selfish 
claims on his time and attention. And as 
for him, his record will be on high, and read 
thus: 

^‘Well done, thou good and faithful serv- 
ant : enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.” 


THE END. 


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